


Red Queen

by manic_intent



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: M/M, Slash, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-25
Updated: 2011-04-25
Packaged: 2017-10-18 15:55:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 34,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/190557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manic_intent/pseuds/manic_intent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the kmeme. Prompt: "Hawke is a Templar in Kirkwall. He often sees his fellow Templars abuse the mages under their "care" and is deeply disgusted by it, trying to protect them as much as he can.  Anders is captured and brought to the Gallows where he's subjected to even worse treatment because he's an apostate. Hawke takes him under his/her wing to protect him. Despite his hatred for Templars Anders warms up to Hawke and eventually falls in love with his guardian."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Red Queen

**Author's Note:**

> MM. More AU fics. Muse's secret weakness.
> 
> This one takes place before Year 1, and will be fully AU. I am actually playing a Templar!Hawke playthrough right now, full rivalry with all characters. For the purposes of this AU I suppose he won't be an evil!Hawke as my playthrough (I blackmailed Thrask to get +rivalry... :/ and killed Haruman for the +rivalry...) but he will retain the aggressive personality.
> 
> Warnings: Spoilers, dark!fic, character death (all major character deaths that happen or are referred to in this fic also happen in the game itself).

_”It takes all the running you can do, to keep in the same place.”_  
\- The Red Queen, _Through the Looking Glass_ , Lewis Carroll

I.

“... and I demand that they return my pants-” The rest of Anders' protest stuttered to a halt as the First Enchanter arched one elegant eyebrow, seated at his desk. A chess game seemed to be in progress, and Orsino's opponent still had his knight held in mid-air, about to take a bishop.

“Ah. Our newest mage. Mage Anders, may I introduce you to Ser Hawke.”

The templar set the knight down on the board, and placed the bishop neatly to a side, before glancing briefly over his heavily plated shoulder. Perhaps once he had been a handsome man, but now he retained the cool, calculating expression that seemed common to all Templars, severe and disciplined, his mouth set in a thin, hard line. “Anders. Anders. Yes. Knight-Captain Cullen mentioned you. It seems that you broke the record in the Fereldan Circle for the most number of successful escape attempts.”

“It keeps them on their toes.”

“You'll find it a little harder to swim away from the Circle this time.” Hawke turned his attention back to the game, resting his cheek on a gloved palm.

“I'm glad to see a continuing trend in Circle construction,” Anders shot back, keeping a tight hold on his mind as Justice stirred, uneasy. If the spirit woke, or worse, took control... Anders would rather die fighting than end up Tranquil. “Forbidding prison, surrounded by water, depressing statuary and décor. If we had a few more flowers and rainbows perhaps us mages would never _think_ of escaping.”

“Anders,” Orsino said, with a sigh. “I mentioned our situation to you before.”

“'Don't annoy the Templars, or we'll all get a big spanking',” Anders drawled. “I've heard that before in Ferelden. And what does this have to do with my pants?”

“The Circle mages in Kirkwall are all to wear prescribed clothes.” Metal rattled and creaked as Ser Hawke rolled his broad shoulders into a shrug. “Those are the rules.”

“And if I'm wearing mismatching socks under this terribly colorful get up?”

The templar's lip curled very slightly, and only for a brief moment. “Then I suppose that you may warrant a light spanking, serah Anders.” Anders blinked, but Ser Hawke continued, in his same, flat tone, “The Knight-Commander's office is but across the corridor. If you wish to wear something outside of regulations, please feel free to petition her. Your move, First Enchanter.”

Orsino shuddered, even as his fingers hovered briefly over his pawn, then choosing to castle instead. “Please don't encourage him.”

“I shudder to think how our Knight-Commander will be able to perceive blood magic from a man's desire to wear what he wants.”

“She'll perceive blood magic from anything,” Orsino said, though he smiled faintly, as if this was an old joke between them. Curious – but not entirely unsurprising, either. Anders had long learned, as did most mages, that the only way to truly survive life in a Circle was to find out which templars tended to be more sympathetic, which were hardliners, and which to avoid at all costs. Often, this cue could be taken from the Circle's First Enchanter. “It _is_ a small and fairly reasonable request, Ser Hawke.”

Unlike most mages, however, Anders had long learned not to trust any templar, even the most sympathetic. As long as a templar remained out of his or her own free will in the Order, that templar would still be at heart a templar.

“Very well, First Enchanter. I'll see what I can do.”

“I also want my staff back,” Anders added helpfully, getting to the crux of his 'requests'. “And the rest of my things.”

“Your 'things' were what got you caught in the first place, serah Anders,” Hawke pointed out, moving his bishop. “Feathery pauldrons, a staff, and unauthorised displays of magic.”

“I was healing a child who had gotten into a serious accident with some merchant's dray cart,” Anders growled, and had to take a deep breath as Justice pressed briefly at his consciousness. Glowing blue right now was not going to be a good way to rest his case. “What was I supposed to do, walk away?”

This time, Ser Hawke turned to regard him, looking him over slowly, thoughtfully. “Many mages would have.”

“I would rather get caught than allow a child to die for my continued freedom.” Besides, it wasn't as though he couldn't simply escape again, no matter what Justice thought about 'giving in'. He had been exhausted from healing, and hadn't had much energy left to attempt to resist. “Doesn't quite fit the Vengeful Evil Apostate character, does it? I've always been curious. Did you decide to join the Order and get yourself addicted to lyrium for the rest of your life because you woke up some morning with an overwhelming need to demonize people who are born different?”

He'd intended to make a quip and leave, but Justice was awake, and keeping a tight dividing line on Anders-thoughts and Justice-thoughts was turning difficult. If he wasn't careful, he'll-

“Perhaps we should continue this game another day, First Enchanter. Please excuse me.” Hawke's tone had turned a shade icier, and at Orsino's nod, he rose and stalked out of the room.

Orsino pinched at the bridge of his narrow nose. “Anders. Ser Hawke arrived in Kirkwall as a refugee from the Blight, with his family. While assisting the guards with a riot, his sister inadvertently revealed herself as a mage. Being an apostate, she was immediately arrested by the templars on site, and upon her pleas – and those of the grateful guardsmen – her family was also allowed into the city with her. Ser Hawke joined the Order shortly after.”

“Horrified that his sister was a mage?” Anders had heard that song and dance before, all too many times, particularly from families frightened of retribution.

“I gather that Ser Hawke's mother married an apostate. Ser Hawke grew up knowing that his sister and father were apostates, and they hid successfully from the templars even after the death of the Hawke the senior. During the attempt to arrest Bethany Hawke, Ser Hawke knocked two templars unconscious, and had to be defeated by the Knight-Captain.”

“Ah.” Anders felt a brief thread of guilt, but Justice felt dissatisfied. _Were I he, I would have fought to my very last breath._ “He is trying to break her out of the Gallows?”

“Not at present. As you can imagine, he too is closely watched – although I hear he has proven himself, hunting blood mages under the Knight-Captain's tutelage. And his sister seems happy here, once she settled in. She has a natural interest in teaching children.” Orsino watched him soberly. “I do not know what it may have been like, in the Fereldan Circle, but here, not all things are set in black and white.”

II.

Absorbed in scoping out the templar patrol systems in the Gallows and memorizing the internal layout, Anders paused as he passed by a room filled with childish laughter, rare even in the Fereldan Circle. The door was ajar, and he peered inside out of curiosity.

A female mage stood, her back to him, her hands gesturing in pantomime, while around her children of various races and species laughed and shouted wild guesses. Anders smiled, despite himself, and Justice settled into a still blanket in his mind; the spirit's version of peacefulness. Innocence tended to be a calming effect on Justice, and on occasion, Anders would catch brief slivers of memory from Kristoff through the cracks, of a life that he could have envied.

Eventually, an elvhen child managed to make a correct guess – 'Arlathan', of all things: Anders' personal guess had been 'giant green octopus' – and was rewarded with a tiny folded paper crane. In side profile, the mage looked vaguely familiar, slender and tall and dark-haired, her robes in emeralds and grays, trimmed with fur. Searching his memory, Anders flinched instead as fingers closed tight on his shoulder and pulled him bodily away from the door.

Ser Hawke's eyes were narrowed, and his flat tone was edged now with belligerence. “What are you doing here?”

“I'm not confined to my room yet, I think.”

“Do what you want. Just stay away from Bethany.”

The familiarity finally struck. “Bethany Hawke. She's your sister.”

“The Knight-Captain says that you're trouble,” Ser Hawke said curtly. “So I don't want to see you anywhere near her.”

“Or what?” Anders growled, “You'll hit me? Break my fingers? Short of you turning me Tranquil, there isn't going to be much that you can do to me that hasn't been done already.”

“Serah Anders-” Ser Hawke began coldly, only to glance back at a light touch on his arm. Bethany had closed the door behind her, and she was shooting her brother an enquiring glance.

“You're disturbing the children, big brother.”

'Big brother'. That, combined with the playful grin that Bethany shot her brother, lent credence with Orsino's interpretation, though he couldn't be entirely certain. Siblings often viewed an older sibling with a touch of hero-worship, however deserved or undeserved.

Ser Hawke, however, snorted. “I was about to call you out from the class when I ran into serah Anders. We have a situation.”

“Another one? Who is it this time?” Bethany frowned, all but skipping to catch up with her brother as Ser Hawke began to stride back down the corridor.

“It's...” Ser Hawke frowned as he noticed Anders following them. “Go away.”

“I'm beginning to think that you don't like me,” Anders said, as brightly as he could, curling his fingers tightly into his palms as Justice began to stir.

Ser Hawke's lip curled, baring a flash of white teeth. “Truly? Whatever could have given you that impression?”

“I apologize for my brother's rudeness,” Bethany extended a slim, palm. “I'm Bethany. This is my brother, Lionel. Unfortunately, there's been a recurring series of similar 'accidents' occurring of late, particularly with recently admitted apostates. You should be careful.”

“I'm a healer.” Anders offered.

“So is my sister,” Ser Hawke retorted, even as Bethany smiled and said, “Are you truly? I'm afraid I'm not always very good at it,” and added, at her brother's scowl, “Well, what is it this time?”

“Compound fracture,” Ser Hawke muttered. “Ethan didn't see anyone, and he's a little concussed, so he's not sure if he was pushed down the stairwell or if he tripped.”

Bethany's face fell. “I can't fix those very well. Remember what happened the last time?”

“I can,” Anders piped in. “Let me help.”

“Well, why not,” Bethany smiled again, this time in clear relief.

“ 'Why not'? It won't be safe if Alrik sees him with us.”

“He's also a recently admitted apostate. If anything, he's probably already a target. And,” Bethany added, as her brother frowned at her, “If I can learn something, I can be better the next time, won't I? You saw what happened when I tried to heal Thiam's fracture.”

Ser Hawke stared at her, but Bethany returned it evenly, until he finally looked away to glower at Anders instead. “Suit yourself.”

Charming man.

Ser Hawke led them up to the living quarters – a charmingly refitted set of cells in the Gallows: even the original heavy wooden doors with the tiny barred grille remained, allowing the guards to look into any of the mages' rooms. This floor belonged to the junior mages, and few of the cells had windows. It was autumn in Kirkwall, and the rooms could be freezing cold.

The small, rectangular room was mostly taken up by a bunk bed and a desk. On the bunk was a young, pale man, not much older than a boy, Fereldan, by the looks of him, curled fetal in pain, his left arm held tightly against his body. Squeezed between the wall and the desk was another templar, this one older and ginger haired, who frowned when he noticed Anders behind Ser Hawke's back. “Lionel. I thought we had discussed-”

“He was the one who followed me, Thrask.” Ser Hawke interrupted. “Bethany tends to encourage strays.”

“Don't be rude, big brother,” Bethany said, if absently, an old rebuke between them both. “Lionel said it was a compound fracture. You know I'm not very good at those. Poor Ethan!”

“Just try it anyway, Bethany, I trust you,” Ethan said encouragingly, if through gritted teeth, as Anders sidled carefully around her into the room, concentrating on gathering healing energy into knitting the cracks and fractures in Ethan's bones, holding the general structure within his mind as he encouraged sinew and bone to link back together. At the end, Ethan sat back up, gingerly squeezing at his arm. “Even the pain's gone. Thank you, serah!”

“That was amazing,” Bethany leaned precariously over the bunk to inspect Ethan's arm more closely. “How did you do that? I can't always get all those cracks to mend up properly.”

“Perhaps you should leave the technical discussion for another time. Thank you for your assistance, serah Anders, Bethany. Lionel and I need to ask Ethan a few questions.”

“I didn't see anyone,” Ethan said quickly. “There's nothing for you to ask me.”

Thrask sighed. “I know that you have a mother and younger brother in Kirkwall, Ethan. You'll have my word that this will not reach back to them.”

“And what, you'll reach out with the long templar arm of the law to shield them at any time of day?” Anders drawled. “He's just had a bad experience with some of your colleagues. I doubt that he's really in any frame of mind to trust another one of you.”

“This is none of your business, serah.” Ser Hawke growled.

“Unfortunately, it involves all the recent mages taken into the Circle,” Thrask disagreed, if gently. “We need to get the word out, discreetly, at least until we have enough to present evidence of misconduct to the Knight-Captain.”

“Haven't you had more than one incident?” Anders recalled. “Isn't that enough for you?”

“Alrik – if it is indeed Alrik and his 'friends' – they have been very careful. Targeting in particular the refugee Fereldan Circle mages who arrived in Kirkwall with their families, or apostates.” The ginger-haired templar sighed. “And sadly, there are not very many of us who will think more of investigating far further if a mage advises us not to press charges and refuses to cooperate.”

Justice growled deep and long within his mind. _These templars are cowards. What need they proof when the circumstantial evidence is clear? They dally because they fear reprisal from their superiors._

Anders had to agree. _They're clannish little things, aren't they?_ “That's it? You're just going to wait for the next time – and the next – until you can catch whoever it is red handed?” A typical templar's idea of their duty of care.

“Big brother and Ser Thrask are already trying their best,” Bethany retorted, folding her arms. Poor misguided girl, blinded by her affection for her brother. Anders couldn't sympathize, but perhaps he could understand.

“Orsino is aware of the problem. He is trying to work out a solution.” Thrask said patiently. “In the meantime, try not to walk around the Gallows by yourself.”

III.

Karl scratched soberly at his beard when Anders finished describing the 'accidents'. Like Anders, he had fled the Fereldan Circle when the Blight had come, but had been caught by the templars upon entering Kirkwall. They sat in a corner of the Kirkwall Circle's impressive library, fashioned out of the maximum security section of the Gallows, with bookshelves lining the walls, interspersed by the odd ancient, discolored stain and rusted chain decoration. Like the rest of the Gallows, the heavy stone meant that the library was freezing cold.

“It's not unsurprising,” Karl said finally, sunk deep into his chair, the tome he had been reading still open in his lap. “There were incidents like this even in the Fereldan Circle, though Greagoir had a better grip on overall templar discipline than Meredith. _And_ he was more reasonable. Thank you for the warning. I'll be careful.”

Anders looked around carefully, but they seemed to be alone. After a moment, Justice confirmed it. “I'll need only another week or so to figure out all the patrols. We're allowed out into the courtyard during the day, as well. And at the worst, it seems like the Order here does allow mages to enter the city itself during the day, as long as they return at night. If I'm good for a while-”

“You arrived with quite the reputation, Anders. I very much doubt they'll ever stop keeping an eye on you.” Karl pointed out, then he smiled wryly. “Not that it has stopped you before. I wish that I had your energy.”

“You're hardly as old as you think.” Justice prodded curiously at his mind as old emotions welled up; water under the bridge that was best left forgotten. When he was far younger, before the Wardens, he had been somewhat more sentimental. Anders was grateful that things had ended amicably – Karl remained one of the few people he could count on as a friend. “If you want-”

“No, Anders. The Kirkwall Circle isn't as... comfortable, compared to the Fereldan one, but unlike you I was never truly... absolutely unhappy within a Circle, deep down. I'm growing old, my friend. Three good square meals a day and all the books I can read, peers close by with whom to argue philosophy and I'm sadly content. Dodging templars is for the young.”

 _Coward_ , Justice whispered in his mind, but Anders pushed the spirit back down.

 _You don't understand_ , he argued reluctantly. _It's exhausting. Once I was like him as well. When I cared only for my own skin. People can change._

 _Good._ Justice decided, and seemed to subside, if uneasily.

“You, settling down?” Anders asked lightly. “You held the previous record for the most number of Circle escapes.” It had been the reason why he had approached Karl in the first place, originally, asking for tips; and for a few, furtive months, one glorious thing had led to another, then to an inevitable conclusion. The claustrophobic confines of a Circle didn't lend well to romances.

“I... met someone,” Karl admitted, with a sidelong, uncomfortable glance at Anders. “We had been corresponding for a while. Even before the Blight, through letters – carefully worded, of course. It was one reason why I came to Kirkwall, rather than attempt to leave with some of the others for Rivain. You don't need to warn me. We're both of... respectable ages. We know how to be careful.”

He felt a faint twinge, one that puzzled Justice briefly, but it was more for old times' sake. “Really? I'm happy for you. When do I get to meet the lucky person?”

Karl looked relieved. “I think you'll like her. She's gentle and kind, and-”

“My ears are burning,” a mage had walked up behind Karl; her mousy, shoulder-length hair turning to gray, crow's feet etched at her eyes and smile-lines at her mouth, her warm gray eyes kindly and twinkling. She wasn't pretty, not by conventional standards, but even for her age she possessed a sleek, shapely body that was still striking to look at. She slipped one ink-stained palm over Karl's shoulder, and he squeezed her hand gently.

“Anders, this is Enchanter Mharen, the Curator of the Kirkwall Circle library. Mharen, this is my friend, Anders, from the Fereldan Circle.”

“Ah yes. I've heard of you.” Mharen smiled at him. “Some of the stories are quite... difficult to conceive. Are you truly also a Warden?”

“The mishaps of youth,” Anders confessed, archly.

“What about the story where you climbed down the Circle tower via knotted bedsheets?”

“Wildly misconstrued, sadly. But I did climb down the tower once,” Anders added, with a shudder. “The draft going up those robes we wear? I thought I'd never feel my toes again. And certain other bits.”

“Anders,” Karl said reproachfully, though he grinned faintly as he said it, and Mharen laughed.

“So what were you two boys talking about, all by yourselves?”

“Nothing,” Anders said quickly, instinctively flinching from worrying such a gentle, elegant lady, but Karl glanced around them and lowered his tone. “He was telling me about the accidents.”

“Ah.” Mharen sighed, bowing her head briefly. “I've heard rumors of that. You must be careful, Anders. If you're ever threatened, come to the library. Ser Emeric spends much of his time here reading, and he is a decent sort and would soon put a stop to any foolishness. Even if he is getting on in his years. As are we all.”

“You, milady? Hardly,” Anders smiled winningly. “You don't look a day over twenty.”

Mharen chuckled, squeezing Karl's shoulder again. “Oh, you're quite the heart-breaker, I'm sure. But I was being serious. Stay away from the worst of them – Ser Alrik and Ser Karras, and their friends. And the library will always welcome you. At the very worst, there are a few very heavy tomes here that these old bones can still lift and wield.”

“I like her,” Anders told Karl.

“I could set your hair on fire from forty paces,” Karl replied mildly.

“But she's not my type,” Anders added hastily.

“Good to hear.”

“Other than Ser Emeric,” Mharen seemed oblivious to their exchange, “There are others you could approach if you ever get into trouble. There's Ser Thrask, of course; he's always a sweetheart. And Knight-Captain Cullen is loyal to Meredith, but he's a fair man. You've met him before, I believe; he was from the Fereldan Circle.”

“We've never spoken.” Anders preferred to keep his distance from templars, where possible.

“And there are a few others – you'll be surprised.”

“And Ser Hawke?” Anders found himself asking.

Mharen's smile faltered a little. “Ser Hawke... such an angry young man. He lost his younger brother on their way to Kirkwall to the darkspawn. I gather he couldn't bear to lose his sister too, and followed her to the Gallows with the only way that seemed open to him. With those motives, he will always place Bethany above all else. But I did hear that Ser Thrask has taken him into his confidence, so perhaps I may be wrong about him.”

“I doubt it.” If anything, Hawke was simply trying to protect his sister, who was also a conscripted apostate. Still, such a rationale was far cleaner – and more honest – than a vague conception of so-called templar duty. Even Justice conceded that. Maybe Hawke could be trusted – to an extent. His main lever – Bethany – was in plain sight, anyway.

“Perhaps so.” Mharen bowed her head. “Well. Come by when you are free. Perhaps you could assist me with the index cards. Karl tends to start reading the books and get distracted, and then half a day goes by with nothing getting catalogued.”

Anders felt the brief, puzzled touch of Justice on his mind, as Karl glanced up with a tender smile at Mharen, and saw, for a fleeting moment, a mental image of Kristoff's wife, her cheeks streaked with tears. The correlation was less than perfect, but as he felt that faint twinge within him again, Anders didn't quite feel up to correcting it.

Besides, this was a distraction – and a relief, in a way. If Karl could be happy here, Anders wasn't selfish enough to deny him that.

 _No. He is a prisoner here. You must make him see that._ Justice disagreed, prowling again within his mind. _He cannot accept this._

 _Leave him alone,_ Anders retorted sharply. _He loves her. Love does... strange things to people. It changes them._

 _Not for the better._ Justice observed, with a touch of disgust. _It made them soft. It made him accept a situation that cannot be forgiven._

 _You say it like it's some sort of sickness_.

Justice seemed to meditate on this for a moment, then, _Have you been in love?_

 _Several times. Not for very long. And it won't change my convictions,_ Anders added warily, in case Justice attempted to take over. He wasn't sure about Karl, but Mharen didn't look like she was the sort who would take nasty, glowing blue surprises very well.

_Keep it that way. I won't tolerate weakness._

Anders frowned. _What do you mean?_ he demanded, but Justice had already subsided. The spirit had felt... angry at him, almost. Resentful. Granted, Justice had been restless ever since Anders had given himself up to the templars when they had caught up with him at the scene of the accident with the dray cart, but the spirit had never felt hostile before.

Perhaps it was simply frustration. Surrounded by templars and forced to stay a passenger at the very back of his mind, Justice was likely just growing impatient. But still, just in case... warily, he cleared his throat. “Mharen? Do you have any books on spirits of the Fade?”

“Definitely.” Mharen nodded, glancing up at the shelves that lined the stone walls. “There's a very good thesis by van Claud, and I think we also have a copy of Leth'lan's manifesto. Why?”

“Mere curiosity,” Anders said glibly. It didn't hurt to be careful. And it wasn't like he wouldn't have the time.

IV.

With his supposed reputation as a repeat escapee, Anders wasn't entirely surprised when trouble finally did catch up with him. He had been inspecting the old, now disused service entrances to the Gallows, checking the hinges and the rusted locks, when he heard a familiar, heavy tread jingling from the end of the darkened corridor. Instantly, he sidled back to the stairwell that he had previously scoped out, the one that led upwards two floors to a quick run that led eventually to the library.

At the top of the next floor, however, a templar was already waiting, one he didn't recognise. A veteran, by the looks of his face, pitted with scars along one cheek, as though from a nasty burn. Anders began to back down slowly, but the heavy footsteps that he had heard previously stopped at the foot of the stair.

“Good day to you, ser,” Anders grit his teeth, as Justice woke at the first spike of adrenaline.

“And what are you doing here, mage?” the scarred templar's smile was thin and cold. “Seeking to tunnel out, are you?”

“The mind is willing, but the flesh lacks appropriate tools, I'm afraid.” Grimly, Anders fought Justice's attempt to take over. He knew his limits. Two templars in a confined space was going to be difficult, even if he managed to get the jump on the scarred one. And besides, even with Mharen's words, Anders knew that templars usually preferred to stick together, where accusations of misconduct were involved.

“The Knight-Commander has concerns about all of you apostates from Ferelden.” Scarred and Ugly took a step down towards him. “She thinks that Greagoir may have been too forgiving. A Circle given over to abominations should have been cleansed.”

“Don't look at me. I wasn't there at that time.” Anders took a step back, and another, thinking hard. If he could catch or stagger Scarred and Ugly with a mindblast, he could use the momentum to tumble the templar down the stairs and get a running head start. Justice wasn't satisfied with this thought – it wanted to fight – but it did recognise that they were currently in a tactically untenable position.

“The Circle's most famous escapee. Perhaps we should break your legs a few times,” Scarred and Ugly's smile widened lazily. “Teach you your place.”

“Do you templars all memorize the same lines from the templar manual?” Anders quipped, even as he concentrated his energy in a lash of psychic force.

Unfortunately, the templar was expecting this; he stretched out his palm, and the spell was strangled in his mind before he could fully unleash it. Dizzy, trying to fight Justice's sudden fury – he wouldn't die with a templar's blade in his heart, not like this – Anders bit out an oath instead as the templar laughed and shoved him roughly.

He felt something in his right arm crack as he hit the wall, and his ankle wrenched as he tumbled down the sharp, steep stairs, trying his best to shield his face and neck, scrambling for his magic, but he ended up with his breath slammed out of him as he landed on his back down the stairwell, not even able to scream as an armored boot drove with cruel precision into his knee, shattering it. The second templar was helmeted, and he picked Anders up by the scruff of his robes easily, drawing back a fist, and Anders shut his eyes tightly, clenching his hands to pull Justice back down, praying to the Maker that the blue cracks wouldn't show on his skin-

The blow never came. Anders gasped in pain as he was abruptly dropped like so much dead weight, blinking his eyes open just in time to see the second templar slam into the nearest wall with a force that made him wince with sympathy. Ser Hawke stepped away from the crumpling body contemptuously, circling around Anders to the stairwell. “Ser Oster. Accosting our charges in stairwells again? You must find another way to spend your considerable free time.”

“Ser Hawke.” Oster spat on the ground. “You and your apostate sister-”

Anders never did get to learn the rest of Oster's undoubtedly unflattering adjectives; Ser Hawke had punched him in a sharp uppercut angled to blacken his eye rather than to knock out the other templar. Cursing, wiping blood from his mouth, Oster hastily staggered to his left, away from the stairwell and to the corridor, and Hawke cracked his knuckles meaningfully, wearing a wolfish expression of belligerence.

“Come on, Oster. Hit me back. It'll be just like the practice grounds.”

Snarling, Oster swung wildly, but Ser Hawke sidestepped, so light on his feet for someone dressed in such heavy armor, grabbing Oster deftly by his shoulder and arm and _twisting_. Oster shrieked as his arm snapped, the grisly sound loud in the confined space.

“Dog-lover!” Oster hissed, even bent on his knees and cradling his broken arm. “Meredith will hear of this!”

“Oh, I'm sure that she will. Around about the same time that she'll hear of your most unfortunate accident in the eastern block, falling down a most curiously familiar flight of stairs. A safety hazard, that one, it's claimed one poor Fereldan mage apostate already.” At Oster's sudden expression of fear, Ser Hawke sneered. “Pick up your friend and get out of my sight, Oster.”

When Oster had limped away, supporting his barely conscious companion, Ser Hawke turned back to regard him. Anders had managed to heal most of the damage, even if he _hated_ pulling any part of himself back into joint. His leg would ache for a few hours, but otherwise... “Thank you,” he said, warily.

“Pay attention to warnings, next time,” Ser Hawke swept him with a quick glance, then looked up at the stairwell. “If I hadn't been keeping an eye on the area, it would not have gone well for you. We'll have to go and see Thrask. If you testify that may be sufficient.”

And call even more attention to himself? Anders was trying to _escape_ , not become embroiled in the latest Templar version of a game of snakes and ladders. “Sorry. I'm grateful for the save, but I'll rather not get involved.”

Ser Hawke scowled at him. “Don't you want to prevent incidents like these from happening to the other newcomers?”

“Isn't that your role?” Anders shot back. “I'm not about to help you rise to the top of your templar pack by being your cat's paw. How friendly do you think Oster and the rest of his friends will be once they realize who squealed on them?”

“And you think that they'll leave you alone if you keep your mouth shut?” Ser Hawke retorted, folding his arms.

“I'll be more careful next time.”

“I might not be there the next time.”

“I don't expect you to be!”

Ser Hawke muttered something filthy under his breath, then he exhaled harshly. “Have it your way. But start walking. Up the stairwell, two floors. Down the corridor.” At Anders' narrowing eyes, the templar grit his teeth. “Oster might have other friends waiting close by. I'll see you safe to the library, then I need to check on Bethany.”

“I don't need your help or 'protection',” Anders snapped at him.

“I'm not _helping_ you, serah Anders. I'm doing my _duty_. Move.”

 _He's just another templar. A jailer. There's only one of him. We could-_ Justice tried to push into the driving seat, but Anders quickly clamped down on the reins and took a deep breath, willing it back down.

_Not now. Please. We can't get involved. We need to find a way out._

Grudgingly appeased, Justice settled down, even as Anders reluctantly began to climb the stairwell, expecting to be dragged backwards at any point. Ser Hawke walked him in a stony silence to the library, glanced at a surprised Mharen, strode over to have a quiet word with Ser Emeric in a corner, then stalked out, leaving Anders standing rather awkwardly at the librarian's counter.

“Are you all right?” Mharen tugged lightly at his sleeve, and Anders nearly jumped out of his skin.

“I'm fine.” Maker, but this place was worse than the Fereldan Circle. “I'm going to sit down.” Reading soothed Justice, oddly enough, even if the spirit didn't really seem to process any of the words.

“Of... of course. Let me fix you some tea. Do you want me to fetch-”

“Alone, please.” He needed to find a way out of Kirkwall and its Circle. And quickly.

V.

“Kirkwall's a tinderbox. The city guard is corrupt under Jevan's dubious leadership, and the qunari are a vicious civil war waiting to happen.” Karl said quietly, once Ser Emeric had left the library for the day, risking a quick look over his shoulder at Mharen. The librarian was at her counter, patiently sorting out the books that had been returned over the current day, and didn't seem to notice. “The viscount is ill-equipped to handle it. He's grown old, and ill, and has already begun to lose his grip on the nobles. They – and many of the common people – are turning to what they perceive is the sole symbol of righteousness and strength in the morass.”

“Meredith.” Anders concluded. It wasn't unusual by all means for a templar's hunger for power to grow further than what they were already alotted, even if the Chantry usually frowned on such behavior. “What about the Grand Cleric?”

“The Chantry is staying neutral. I gather they have a theological fight on their hands. People have been converting to the Qun.” Karl sighed. “So the Gallows is left unchecked, and to prove her strength, Meredith must appear to control her usual charges. Come down hard on any evidence of blood magic, catch every apostate. She isn't reasonable like Greagoir, nor is Orsino as good a diplomat or a politician as Irvine. The more they quarrel, the worse it becomes for the rest of us. She'll restrict grimoires on a whim, one week, then staves on another.”

“You think that she'll turn a blind eye to the 'accidents'?”

Karl shrugged. “She won't hear of any dissension in the ranks. I can't be certain what she'll conclude on the matter. But it won't be easy for you to leave. I doubt that the situation I've described will resolve itself quickly, if at all.”

“Nothing's impossible,” Anders assured Karl jauntily, thinking it over. Unlike the Fereldan Circle, Kirkwall's Gallows wasn't in the middle of bloody nowhere. Once he could get into Kirkwall, Anders was fairly certain that he could disappear. The problem was _getting_ into Kirkwall. Mages were allowed out into into the city, but save for the most senior Enchanters, it seemed on closer questioning of the others that these outings were usually permitted only when a templar or another senior Enchanter were close by. “What are the senior Enchanters like?”

“You've met some of them,” Karl said, with some disgust. “They're afraid of Meredith. The only one with any spine at all is Orsino, and he's really too bloody-minded to do anything but anger her. If I'm thinking about what you're thinking – forget it. If any mage under their watch were to go conveniently missing in Kirkwall, they'll instantly lose their position. Worse, Meredith is fairly free with her Tranquil dictates, as a form of punishment. None of them would be willing to risk that.”

Then it'd have to be a templar. Anders shuddered. He couldn't risk any mage becoming Tranquil for his sake, not even those that he didn't like. “How long have the 'accidents' been happening?”

“I gather that this Circle has always had problems. Unlike the Fereldan Circle's tower, it's a big building. Plenty of places to get lost in. Difficult for the other templars to police. We don't use the entirety of the Gallows, only four out of six wings. There have been assaults before, and worse,” Karl said grimly. “That Alrik in particular, I've heard things about him. Nothing that could be substantiated, but he's the reason why none of the younger, prettier female mages will walk around on their own after the eighth bell.”

Anders grimaced, as Justice simmered with growing fury. _They are worse than animals!_

 _Power inevitably corrupts_ , Anders had to agree. “How do supplies get here?”

“There's a daily shipment by barge early in the morning. You'll never be able to get on it though. The templars watch it.”

“Then what would you suggest?”

“Wait the situation out, if you can wait that long. Once something in the city implodes – with the qunari, most likely – Meredith will want to interfere. With the templars' attention turned elsewhere, that'll be your chance.”

Anders glanced over at Mharen, then back at Karl. “If it's so bad here, are you sure that the both of you-”

“It's not always like this; and if you keep your head down and stay out of trouble, most of them leave you alone. Besides, if you escape, and get caught again by Meredith, you'll be turned Tranquil for certain,” Karl lowered his voice to a whisper and averted his eyes. “Maybe you're willing to take that chance. But even were I equally willing to do so, I cannot allow Mharen to take it with me. I'm sorry, Anders.”

 _Your friend is weak_ , Justice whispered angrily in his mind. _We do not need him._

“No, I understand. Thanks for all the help so far, anyway.” _It's his choice._ And a very large risk indeed, if Karl was correct. The escape attempt would have to run perfectly.

VI.

After the incident with Oster, matters seemed to get progressively worse. According to Mharen, Ser Hawke wasn't particularly popular with the other templars to begin with – he had a brusque nature, and his quick rise into the ranks of a full templar had not brought him many friends. Of those few that he had, Thrask apparently was notorious with the other templars for being a so-called 'mage-sympathizer' – as though it was somehow a character flaw to have some degree of common humanity; Emeric was old, and like an old animal, he stuck to a severe and quiet routine of life that didn't lend itself to much conflict; and Knight-Captain Cullen's friendship apparently simply brought even more trouble than it was worth.

Templar politics were usually as inconceivably complicated as templar motives, and Anders wasn't entirely surprised to find himself somehow sucked into the mix despite his best efforts. His silence on the stairwell incident hadn't brought an end to all the harassment – if anything, now that it was possible that he had some information that he could hold over Oster, Oster's friends seemed to take every chance to make his life a misery.

Being called names and being pushed around wasn't a novelty, but having to restrain Justice from lashing out made such petty incidents far more trying than they really were. And he had to admit that he had Ser Hawke to thank, in a way, for not having revealed his passenger to date. Whenever Oster's friends managed to catch or herd him somewhere quiet, Ser Hawke tended to show up before any serious damage was done that could trigger Justice taking over, and Maker, the man could fight like a demon.

Both Justice and Anders knew better than to trust a templar, however. Ser Hawke needed his testimony against Oster. For now, he had an ally – or a stalker – however reluctantly the aid might truly be given. If Ser Hawke was frustrated by his continued silence, the templar no longer showed it.

Deep down, however, Anders had to admit that his hatred of templars was beginning to thaw a little in Ser Hawke's direction. After all, it was only human to like people who helped you, whatever their motives were. Justice disliked it, but the spirit understood the usefulness of having an ally in the enemy camp, however temporary.

Ser Hawke was walking him back to the library in their usual silence when Ser Thrask stepped out from an adjoining corridor and fell into pace beside him. “Lionel.”

A nod. “Thrask. Is something the matter?”

Thrask shot Anders a brief and considering glance, then turned it back up to Ser Hawke. “Matters may soon be coming to a head. I hear that Karras and Alrik intend to bring disciplinary action against you for 'unruly behavior'. They will petition Meredith this week.”

“Let them.” Ser Hawke shrugged, shoulder plates scraping against mail.

“They are going to claim that you have been attacking templars, unprovoked, in secluded areas of the Gallows, as a side-effect from the lyrium. You could be discharged.”

“ _What_?” Anders burst out, and felt a little surprised at himself even as both templars turned to stare at him. “That's unfair!”

“Yes, well, serah Anders,” Thrask said wryly, “The principal witnesses to most of these incidents refuse to talk, and other eye witnesses to date have tended to be mages. Meredith would place more import on a templar's words than a mage's. Despite this, Orsino intends to speak on your behalf.”

“That may not be a good thing,” Anders grimaced. He had, only three days ago, borne inadvertent and first hand witness to how easily the First Enchanter could get into a bloody flaming row with the Knight-Commander. A neutral observer would have thought them a married couple, the way they fell so quickly to bickering.

Ser Hawke coughed. “Perhaps I should mention something to the First Enchanter. But even should serah Anders abruptly decide to be of some assistance, Meredith will be even less likely to view his words kindly. It's no secret that he's trying to escape. Especially with his track record.”

“I'm right here,” Anders muttered.

“I may not have originally wanted to join the templars for the usual reasons,” Ser Hawke ignored him, “But I understand duty. My father used to mention some of the abuses that went on in the Circle that he was in, when Bethany was out of hearing. I never entirely believed him. Now I can see that it's worse than what he's ever described. I won't stand for that. If I'm to be discharged, then so be it.”

“And Bethany? If you're discharged – Emeric and I, and the others, we'll try our best to keep an eye on her for you, in case Karras and Alrik-”

“If I leave the Gallows,” Ser Hawke said unhurriedly, “Then Bethany will come with me.”

Anders exhaled slowly, not having realized that he had been holding his breath, and curled within him, he could feel a thin, reluctant thread of approval from Justice. _Approval_. He didn't think that was possible. Sweet Andraste, but he could believe that Hawke would try it, hell take whatever stood in his way. For his sister. For a _mage_. If only-

Thrask made a stifled cough that sounded a little strangled. “Try not to say that within earshot of Meredith.”

“Watching her implode could be entertaining,” Anders pointed out. “From a safe distance.”

Ser Hawke scowled briefly at him, before looking back over at Thrask. “I'll speak with the Knight-Captain. Satisfied?”

“What with our newest recruits beginning to go missing of late, I think he's been preoccupied. But if you offer to assist him, perhaps he will be somewhat more forthcoming.”

Anders rather doubted it – he hadn't had much of an impression of Cullen when he had been in the Fereldan Circle, but he had heard Cullen talking with a group of other templars once in the Gallows, when he had been heading to the sleeping quarters, and felt that the Knight-Captain was as prejudiced and bloody-minded as the rest of them. But Ser Hawke had been... useful to date, and even Justice agreed that the situation was unfair, and... “Look. If my testimony can help you keep your position, then I'll help you.”

Thrask and Ser Hawke shot him near identical looks of surprise, and he added, with a touch of irritation, “Don't think that I don't resent it. But it's unfair to you. Whatever your reasons are, you _have_ been protecting the other mages – and myself.” Not to mention that Bethany Hawke was a sweet, naive girl, even if her brother was a prickly, thorny manifestation of violence, and Anders did not want to think about what might happen to her if Ser Hawke was discharged. Thrask and the others couldn't be everywhere.

Ser Hawke opened his mouth, his eyes narrowing, but Thrask cut in hastily. “Thank you, serah Anders. Even if Meredith may be a little more easily swayed by Karras and Alrik, I think that the Knight-Captain will be reasonable.”

VII.

One of the advantages that the Gallows had over the Circle in Ferelden was the large courtyard. It meant that mages that weren't allowed out beyond the Gallows were still able to get a little sunshine, if they didn't mind the depressing statues – and see their relatives and friends from beyond the prison walls.

Out of some rather misplaced idea that he was now a friend of the family, Bethany had dragged him out to meet her mother. Leandra Hawke would have been a beauty when she was younger, but age and a difficult life had taken its toll. Her hair was an iron gray, and deep careworn lines were etched across delicate features. From the way she occasionally eyed surrounding templars with a hint of fear, it wasn't difficult to guess what had been the enduring bane of her life after marrying an apostate.

It made Anders respect her, at least – and even Justice sent a faint hint of approval. From what little he had heard from Bethany's chatter when he had been teaching her the finer points of bone-setting, Leandra Hawke had come from a noble family, and had defied her parents and given up her inheritance for a life on a run as a commoner with an apostate as a husband, jumping at every shadow. Had the world more people like Leandra, the Circles might no longer be so established.

“Mother, this is Anders,” Bethany was saying, as she drew them into a corner of the Gallows, near the stalls on the righthand corner. Save for the herbalist's shop, the rest were run by Tranquil, which disturbed Anders on a fundamental level. From the occasional expressions of pity and worry that Leandra shot the still, monotone shells of former mages that stood obediently at their positions, he could tell that he wasn't the only one.

“My daughter's letters spoke very highly of you,” Leandra smiled warmly at him. “There are very few mages about who have an interest or talent in healing magic. I am glad that she found a teacher. Even my Malcolm could not teach her.”

“No, it's been a pleasure, milady. Your daughter has interest _and_ talent. It's a rare thing.”

“You wouldn't believe that if you saw the mess I nearly made of my last patient,” Bethany pulled a face. “That poor bird. Anders had to quickly fix everything.”

“Wings are tricky,” Anders allowed. The children had found a pigeon hobbling along a corner of a courtyard, likely wounded by one of the birds of prey that some of the templars kept for pets. It had shown its appreciation for their efforts by making a foul mess in the infirmary. “A lot of small, hollow bones.”

“Where's Lionel?” Leandra's smile faded a fraction, as she glanced around them.

“He's busy today,” Bethany explained, “He followed the Knight-Captain out on some errand of sorts. They're investigating the recruit disappearances.”

Leandra shuddered, and lowered her tone. “There's something not quite right about this place, Bethany. If the templar recruits are going missing... and I know that there's something that Lionel and yourself are not telling me in your letters. Oh... I should have been more watchful when we first came to this wretched city! It was my fault. I chose to come to Kirkwall, even though I knew – I _knew_ that there were so many templars here!”

“Hush, Mother.” Bethany had an arm around her mother's frail shoulders immediately. “It's not all bad. I like teaching.” She looked over plaintively at Anders for support.

“Uh. It's better than being eaten by the darkspawn?” Anders suggested, uncomfortably, unsure about how to describe a 'good' life within a mage prison, but not wanting to upset an already anxious parent.

The rest of the meeting was similarly awkward. Anders felt like an outsider, but couldn't quite figure out a way to excuse himself without seeming utterly rude, especially since Leandra and Bethany were conscientiously including him in all their conversation. When the sudden hubbub at the outer gate grew, it was somewhat of a relief.

Knight-Captain Cullen strode through into the courtyard, his expression stony and grim, followed by Ser Hawke, their armor splashed with blood and ichor. _Demons_. Justice threaded his thoughts with an old anger, an old hatred, that Anders had to hastily fight to keep down. Leandra made a faint sound, and took a step forward, but Bethany quickly grabbed hold of her wrist as Cullen and Hawke addressed a Knight-Lieutenant quietly, then Ser Thrask, who had padded up to them.

They were standing directly on the path to Meredith's office, and Cullen inclined his head briefly and respectfully to Leandra before striding away towards the stair up to the raised portcullis. Ser Hawke paused, frowning at Anders, but he looked away to Bethany when she grabbed him by the elbow.

“You're hurt.” Bethany was growing more confident at her magic; the seeping wound at Ser Hawke's neck closed quickly and efficiently, and as he took a step, the leg he had been favoring straightened.

“Thank you, Bethany.” Ser Hawke said quietly. “I'll speak with you later. Mother.”

“What happened?” Leandra had been staring at the spotty trail of blood and ichor that Ser Hawke and the Knight-Captain had left with a mute expression of absolute horror.

“It's been resolved for now.” Ser Hawke said evasively. “Excuse me.”

Ser Hawke had only been gone a couple of minutes when Bethany burst out, “I'm going to listen in. He'll never tell me what's going on, otherwise.”

“Are you sure?” Leandra turned a little paler. “I've heard stories about the Knight-Commander.”

“Don't worry. Orsino's office is just opposite hers. I'll just dive in and hide under the table if anything's wrong.” Bethany said reassuringly. “Come on, Anders. Don't you want to know what's going on?”

Personally, Anders didn't, but Leandra's anxious expression made him waver. “I'll try to keep her out of trouble.”

“Oh, thank you, serah.” Leandra said, with a note of relief, watching nervously as Anders followed Bethany towards the raised portcullis, wondering what in the Maker's name had he gotten himself into this time.

Orsino was already standing outside Meredith's closed door, and he glowered at them when they approached. “Bethany. Anders. This is none of your concern.”

“Nor yours, it seems,” Anders pointed out. “Seeing as we've all been shut out like naughty little children.”

“The Knight-Captain and Ser Hawke had left the Gallows on the tail of Wilmod, the only one of the missing recruits who returned. Since they returned without him, something must have happened.”

“Turn your back for a second and it's raining demons,” Anders said, with a tone of arch commiseration. “Whatever will Kirkwall come to next?”

“This isn't amusing, Anders,” Orsino said coldly. “Meredith wields her power like a sledgehammer. If she somehow decides to tie this to the Circle, it could prove disastrous-”

Orsino's prediction was cut off with a sudden, sharp exclamation from within the office. It was Knight-Captain Cullen. “With _all due respect_ -”

“I am _not_ interested in your excuses,” Meredith snarled, audible even through the thick door. “I am only interested in _results_. I have asked you to solve this _discreetly_ , Knight-Captain. You have so far failed in both aspects of my instruction. Am I understood?”

“I... you are understood, Knight-Commander,” Cullen could be heard saying stiffly.

“Then get out and do what I have told you to do!”

Anders grimaced as the door swung open. Cullen didn't even give them a second glance, storming off towards the raised portcullis. Meredith glared at them, her temper simmering, lips tightened. “Orsino. Do you have something to say?”

“Merely a request to extend aid if you need it, Knight-Commander,” Orsino said neutrally, though his fingers tightened over his tri-dragon staff.

“Well, I do not. This is a templar matter. Stay out of it if you wish to 'extend aid',” Meredith retorted, bitingly sharp. “Stay here, Ser Hawke,” she added, when Ser Hawke made as if to step out of the room. “I'm not finished with you.”

Ser Hawke stared at her evenly, then he inclined his head. “Knight-Commander.”

“Karras and Alrik have brought a set of rather singular accusations against you, Hawke. Given your reputation, I am rather inclined to believe them.”

“Knight-Commander,” Orsino stepped forward, “I can assure you-”

“This is none of your business, Orsino.”

“If I may put forward an opinion?” Anders raised a hand.

“Nor yours, mage,” Meredith swung her chilling ball-breaker stare upon him, and he almost took a step back. “Your notoriety as a troublemaker well precedes you.”

Well, so much for that. Anders, however, quickly grabbed Bethany by the shoulder as, red-faced, she tried to stride into Meredith's office. Ser Hawke shook his head at her before turning back to the Knight-Commander. “Did they accuse me of preventing them from causing unprovoked injury to our charges? We are meant to preserve and protect, both the mages in our care and the rest of the world from them. This is what you have told me before.”

“I have long held suspicions about Karras and Alrik,” Meredith said coldly, “But I cannot tolerate dissension within our ranks. Kirkwall cannot afford a civil war within the templar Order. Karras and Alrik are both templars of long standing in the Order. Karras, in particular, has proven himself time and again as a hunter. You are still a relative newcomer here.”

“You want me to prove myself? What more do you want me to do?” Ser Hawke asked bluntly, and Orsino winced.

“Cullen is a good Knight-Captain. He is a natural leader, and he is fair. In many regards he commands as much respect with the rest of the templars as I do.” Meredith's lip curled briefly in distaste at this, even as she added, “But he does not have a mind that is particularly suited to solving mysteries. I need the problem of the disappearing recruits solved. If you can do so, I will speak with Karras and Alrik about the nature of their accusations in greater depth.”

“That's not a promise of help at all!” Bethany growled. “Lionel didn't do what they're accusing him of doing! You can't blackmail him!”

“Stay out of this, Bethany,” Ser Hawke said sharply. “I am already assisting the Knight-Captain in his enquiries.”

“Make your own,” Meredith shot back. “When the Knight-Captain presented you to me with your sister, one year ago, I had always thought that you would rise high in the Order if you applied yourself. My belief has not changed. Prove that I am right, and I will express very strongly to Karras and Alrik that I would be sorry to see you leave the Order.”

Ser Hawke bowed his head. “Then by your leave, Knight-Commander.”

“Give me results. And for the Maker's sake, be discreet about it.”

VIII.

Anders was reading Leth'lan's manifesto when Ser Hawke and Ser Thrask entered the library, making a bee-line to Emeric's corner. Mharen looked up from the counter with a quick, curious glance, frowning, even as Anders eased deeper into his chair out of habit at the sight of so much templar-crested plate armor, and Karl sat up straight in his.

Desultory, brusque greetings turned into an even more desultory description of Hawke's findings to date. Recruits were continuing to disappear, and another recruit that had returned, a pretty faced blonde young man called Keran, had to be 'taken care of'. Anders felt his lip curl into a sneer at the thought. Word got out and and around the Gallows even with Meredith's dictates. Karl had told him that the Knight-Captain, Ser Hawke and the Knight-Commander had entered a chamber with Keiran, and the body bag that had later been dragged out of it had been leaking ichor, the mass of it considerably greater than a human shape.

It hadn't seemed possible to have demons possess unwilling, non-mage hosts, but Justice told him that it was – particularly with blood magic involved. The spirit was fiercely disgusted with the entire incident, but Anders could appreciate how a little chaos might work to his benefit. Unless Meredith was as unstable as the Rite of Tranquility as he'd heard.

“... there has to be a common link to these disappearances,” Emeric said, his hands steepled together. “A common place from which they go missing. I've investigated killings before. They do tend to operate with the same methodologies.”

“The other recruits have no suggestions,” Thrask shook his head. “Meredith's set you a difficult riddle, Lionel.”

“I think that there's something that the recruits aren't telling us. They're afraid to be disciplined,” Ser Hawke said flatly. “Perhaps we could work it out of one of them.”

“They're stressed and frightened enough from what happened to Keiran,” Emeric disagreed. “We don't want infighting to occur in the Gallows. Tensions are high enough. After all, the Gallows is the obvious point of confluence. And there are a lot of mages here, if Meredith wants to start sniffing for blood magic.”

“The recruits don't go missing in the Gallows. Meredith recognises that. We've searched the disused wings.” Hawke was pacing in a tight, angry circle. “I was a recruit not long ago. I know that the others sometimes go out to Kirkwall while off-duty. But where? Cullen's already tried the Blooming Rose.”

“Small luck he'll have there. The Madam dislikes templars. She thinks that we are out to get her operations closed down,” Emeric said thoughtfully. “It must be the Rose. What else would the recruits be unwilling to discuss?”

“I'll try the Rose again then.” Hawke frowned. “I still have my old armor in my chambers. If I change out of the templar gear, perhaps the women will be more forthcoming.”

“You can't go alone,” Thrask disagreed. “Perhaps-”

“You're needed here. Karras and Alrik are still up to their schemes. I'll be fine.” Hawke's sharp tone eased only a fraction. “Keep an eye on Bethany. She's been trying to help, and I don't want her involved.”

“That's understood. What about the Knight-Captain?”

“He'll be recognised. He's tried it already, remember?”

“I suppose so.” Thrask sighed, then he shook hands firmly with Hawke, followed by Emeric. “Good luck. And stay safe.”

“That,” Karl murmured to Anders, “Can't end well.”

Anders nodded, his sense of disquiet shared by Justice; the spirit of the fade was convinced that blood magic was afoot, somehow, and its old hatred of demons seemed to have overridden it's comparatively recent and derivative hatred of templars. Still, it wasn't as though they were able to provide any aid when confined to the Gallows, and Hawke seemed confident.

IX.

Depressingly enough, as Karl predicted, Ser Hawke promptly went missing, and Anders was left to handle Bethany's growing fright and anxiety over her brother's well-being. A raid led on the Blooming Rose by the Knight-Captain turned up more questions than answers: it seemed that someone matching Ser Hawke's description had indeed turned up to the Rose, seen a prostitute named Idunna, and had killed her. A search of Idunna's room had turned up copies of banned grimoires hidden in a false-bottomed wardrobe, but no trace of Ser Hawke whatsoever.

The grimoires and the suspicious disappearance of a full Knight began to simmer tensions towards a boiling point, with further fuel added to the fire during the now daily shouting matches between Meredith and Cullen, or Meredith and Orsino. Movements out of the Gallows were restricted for both templars and mages alike, even for the Enchanters, and resentment was building on both sides. Surprisingly enough, it wasn't split cleanly between both camps; Thrask and Hawke had far more 'mage-sympathizer' friends than even Anders had originally thought. The templars were beginning to sunder behind either Thrask or Karras, with Cullen caught in the centre and Meredith's temper fraying further and further at the growing schism.

With visitors also restricted, Bethany spent most of her free time standing hopelessly in the courtyard, waiting for her brother, and Anders stayed with her. The disused wings were out of bounds now, and with Karras on the warpath and Thrask with his hands full handling just the occupied areas, even Justice understood that it was too dangerous to try poking around it by himself.

Besides, he had finished all the books that the library had on spirits of the fade, and felt little the wiser. Many, including Leth'lan's manifesto, confirmed Justice's description of itself – as the first children of the Maker. Others advised that all spirits were the same – the difference was merely the human trait that defined them: be it rage, pride, hope, justice or faith. Many, however, also stressed the uneven boundary between a spirit like Justice and an actual demon, and all urged caution in any dealings.

 _A little late now_ , Anders thought, with resignation. Still, the hostility that Justice had shown before hadn't surfaced again, and the spirit was cooperative again. Perhaps it had resigned itself to the long game, escape-wise: or so Anders hoped. And, oddly enough, he no longer sensed a spark of hostility from it whenever Ser Hawke was about. Justice seemed to identify with all that chatter about _duty_ and a bloody-minded inclination to do whatever Hawke wanted with no regard to consequences. It was a sobering thought. If Justice had taken a templar as a host instead of a mage-

“Anders! Anders!” Karl was running down the steps from the Circle proper towards him, a bunch of white lilies crushed in one fist.

Anders blinked at him as he drew close. “Are those for Mharen? However did you get them? Nobody's been allowed outside.”

“Don't mind him,” Bethany managed a smile even with the dark sleepless hollows under her eyes. “They're lovely. She'll adore them.”

“So Mharen's not with you. Where is... where are these from? She hasn't been seen in the library. Emeric doesn't know where she is!”

“Slow down, Karl,” Anders cut in, as Karl bent, hands on his knees, puffing with exertion. “What's wrong?”

“Mharen hasn't been seen for more than a day, Anders. She hasn't been in the library, or any of her classes, and none of her friends have seen her. We... we had an argument two days ago,” Karl added, his eyes tight with tension, “So I hadn't been to the library... oh, what has happened? She can't have left the Gallows. No boat will take any mages, under Meredith's dictate. And I saw these in her room. Maker, she hates lilies! She told me once that they reminded her of funerals!”

That explained why Anders hadn't seen Karl for two days – if he recalled, from days long past, Karl's reaction to arguments was to sulk alone in his room. He'd had his hands full with Bethany, and hadn't thought to investigate. “I thought that she was in conferences with the other Enchanters.” Orsino had been calling meetings of late, in view of the growing tension in the Gallows. Of the templars, only Thrask and a handful of others tended to be invited, a snub that was likely polarizing the divide further with the other templars.

“Orsino hasn't seen her. Neither have the other Enchanters. Andraste, what if... what if Karras and the others have started on the rest of the mages?” Karl was growing paler and paler as he spoke, more agitated. “Maybe she's in the restricted wing, bleeding to death!”

“Calm down, Karl,” Bethany grabbed hold of both his wrists. “Lilies are usually, well, they're a, uh, nice sign. Maybe whoever gave it to her didn't know she doesn't like them.”

“No. No, she wouldn't have,” Karl moaned, looking around wildly, then he froze, glaring to his side. Following his stare, Anders recognised Alrik with a sinking heart, chatting to one of his Knight cronies, emerging from under the portcullis to Meredith's office.

Bethany came to the same thought at the same time as Anders. “Karl, _don't_ -”

Anders made an ineffective grab for Karl as the older mage jerked his hands out of Bethany's grip, marching into Alrik's path, his face red with fury. “Alrik! What have you done with Mharen!”

Alrik had drawn up short, though the templar merely smirked at him, glancing between the furious mage and the templar at his side. “Mharen. Mharen. I can't say that I recall a Mharen, Jethro. Do you?”

“The librarian, Ser Alrik,” Jethro said.

“Ahh yes. That old biddy in the library. What about her?”

“You've done away with her! You or Karras!” Karl snarled. “How could you? What has she ever done to you? I know what you did to Annaline-”

The rest of Karl's accusation was cut off as Alrik drew his gauntleted fist back and slugged Karl on the jaw with a heavy blow, slamming the mage back against a pillar. Anders shouted, and tried to run forward, but Bethany was hanging on to his arm, white-faced.

“Watch your tongue, mage.” Alrik said coldly. “I did nothing to Mharen. She's not the sort to catch my interest.”

The templar walked past, Jethro keeping pace beside him, even as Karl slowly wiped his mouth with his palm. Even from this distance, Anders could see that his skin was spotted with blood.

As Karl continued to stare, unblinking, a thought struck Anders like chill fingers of ice down his spine. Shaking Bethany off, he hurried forward. “No. Karl, _no_. You can't, you _can't think of_ -”

Karl, however, was slowly getting to his feet, his fingers jerky now, like a marionette's, and he abruptly bent backwards in the air, his spine in an impossible curve. Then, to Anders' horror, his flesh began to melt and crack, turning hot and molten beneath, like a font of lava that spouted down to pool on the flagstones, Karl's form losing shape into something that was vaguely humanoid, like a pillar of flame with grasping claws.

At Bethany's scream, Alrik whirled around, just in time to see the rage demon bear down upon him and pick him up like he weighed nothing, slamming him down onto the ground hard enough to crater the ancient flagstones, smashing his head like rotten fruit, then backhanding Jethro away to skid and crash into the armorer's stall. Pandemonium erupted as merchants screamed and fled, templar recruits drawing their blades shakily and other templars shouting as they approached the demon.

Anders dragged Bethany back behind a pillar as Justice tried to surge forward, causing his hands to glow blue for a moment before he clamped down upon it. _Fight! We must fight!_

 _We will,_ he assured it, heartsick to his very core, then added sharply, “Stay here,” to Hawke's sister.

“I won't,” Bethany raised her chin, her staff already in her hands. “Not if you're not!”

Anders was about to argue, when shades rose from the flagstones, wraithlike in their tattered shreds of purple and gray, the stench of sweet rot chokingly thick, and he lashed out with a blast of ice, then a fist of stone that shattered it. Bethany had caught two others near the armorer's stand with a glyph, even as templars advanced on the monsters, blades drawn, and Anders could hear Cullen's bellowed battle-cry as he engaged the rage demon.

Karl. _Why_ had Karl... “Move!” Bethany pulled him clear as a shade swept in an undulating wave towards them, halted as Bethany drew a barrier around them both. It reared back as Anders raised his hands and set it on fire, then melted into a stain as Thrask impaled it from behind with his blade.

The Knight-Captain was going toe to toe with the rage demon, his armor increasingly charred and dented, a smudge of ash across his right cheek, even as recruits and Knights around him lay groaning and incapacitated from its wild, hammering blows, scorched and smoking. As Anders watched, Cullen ducked an overhead blow, lashing out first with a blast of blue lyrium – a smite – then with his blade, sundering one of the molten claws that eddied abruptly into ash. As the demon stumbled back, with a guttural, unnatural howl, he sidestepped a wild grasp and brought down his blade, sweeping its amorphous head from its body.

As the demon melted to nothing, Bethany scurried forward, kneeling down beside a mortally wounded recruit and pulling healing magic into her hands. Justice grumbled as after a moment's hesitation, Anders grudgingly stepped forward to do the same, concentrating on the injured commoners and merchants that had been mauled by the shades. The spirit wanted to do battle, but other mages and templars were pouring out of the Circle, joining the fray, and soon the shades had all been defeated. A ragged cheer rose from the templars and mages, even as Orsino and Meredith pushed past towards them.

“What happened here?” Meredith growled, glancing between Alrik's still form and the molten puddle of the rage demon.

“Knight-Commander,” Thrask began, only for her to hold up a hand.

“Your sympathies are well known, Thrask. What happened here, Cullen? Blood magic?”

“Blood magic,” Cullen confirmed curtly. “Karl Thekla and Ser Alrik had a brief altercation. Alrik assaulted Thekla, who lost control of himself.”

“And now Alrik is dead.” Meredith's lip curled.

“There's more at play here than you think, Meredith,” Orsino interjected. “Karl was close to the Enchanter who went missing, the librarian Mharen. He's been distraught. I thought that I had calmed his fears, but he must have met Alrik with an accusation.”

“And upon hearing what he did not like, turned to a demon for aid.”

“He had ample right to suspect Alrik,” Anders cut in hotly, even as Justice drew back, disapproving; the spirit hated demons and all who consorted with them. “You know what Alrik's been doing! With the mage girls! With the-”

“Silence, mage,” Meredith hissed. “Whatever Alrik has done, he is dead. Have some respect. And no act can condone blood magic. Surely you understand that.”

Anders grit his teeth, but he had to reluctantly agree, even as he clenched his hands tightly.

“It was a lone act,” Orsino tried again. “With exceptional circumstances. Surely _you_ can see that, Knight-Commander!”

Thrask grimaced, and Bethany let out a soft groan. As Meredith began to redden slowly with fury, however Cullen quickly held up both hands. “Please. Let us discuss this further in the Knight-Commander's office. In the meantime, thank you to all, mages and templars, who helped resolve this unfortunate incident. You are all commended for your bravery. Could I have the mages with healing magic kindly attend to the heavily injured, and Ser Ulren, please arrange for potions and the infirmary to be prepared.”

Meredith's brow darkened – Cullen's actions were those of a leader, evident from how everyone hastened to obey him – while in comparison, hers seemed more of an angry child. She uttered a word under her breath and turned on her heel, stalking away towards her office, even as Orsino's shoulders slumped in relief. Once she was out of hearing, he murmured, “Thank you, Knight-Captain.”

“The injured have priority, First Enchanter. We must keep order. Now, if you please,” Cullen lowered his voice, with a wry smile, “Try not to exacerbate the problem further? The Knight-Commander has had a most trying set of weeks.”

Orsino narrowed his eyes, but after some hesitation, he nodded slowly. “I will endeavor strongly to be diplomatic.”

As the chaos around him began to turn orderly, Anders walked away from the molten stain, towards the crushed, charred lilies that lay against the pillar that Karl had been thrown against. As he picked one up, the petals fell away, wilting in his hand, a part of his world turning to ash along with it.

X.

Bethany found him sitting on Karl's bed, his head in his hands, and she sat down beside him, her hands in her lap. Eventually, she propped a pillow against the cold stone behind them and made herself more comfortable, leaning back, staring up at the ceiling. Anders didn't have the heart to tell her to leave, and they sat in silence until his elbows, propped hard on his knees, went past aching into a cold numbness, long far past tears or anger.

“I didn't know Karl very well,” Bethany said quietly, as he took in a shaky breath. “But Mharen was one of the first people to be nice to me. She liked it here. I don't think she left out of her own will.”

“So she might be dead, like Karl said, or worse, while we're just sitting here?”

“I didn't mean...” Bethany let out a forced laugh. “I'm sorry. I'm not very good at this, am I?”

Anders exhaled slowly, threading his fingers together in front of his eyes. “I got to know Karl when I was in Ferelden. He used to escape regularly from the Circle when he was younger. I thought he could give me a few tips. I was young, and wanted to seem fearless. He _was_ fearless. Or so I thought at the time. I admired that. It doesn't take much to fall in love when you're very young.”

“Oh. The both of you were...” Bethany's tone trailed off, then she added, in a small voice. “I'm truly sorry, Anders.”

“It was a long time ago. I think we had both grown up a little more since then. We had been friends for far longer than we were... whatever it was. The templars don't make relationships within the Circle remotely normal.”

“I thought this place was all right at first. I didn't really understand why someone like you would keep spending so much effort trying to escape. Especially since my brother was here too. But now he isn't and... I feel like I'm ready to burst,” Bethany admitted, with a painful little sigh. “Everyone's on eggshells, waiting for the next explosion. Nothing's 'remotely normal'.”

“All the Circles are like this, I gather – the Chantry ones, anyway.” Anders recalled. “It's what happens when you sequester two groups of people who have full reason to hate each other in the same building. Most of us grow up not knowing anything better. But you do. I'm surprised that you were willing to tolerate this for so long.”

“You've met Mother. I don't think she can really do any more running. It took everything she had just to make it to Kirkwall. And if I run – all of us will have to run for the rest of our lives. Before the lockdown I could see her three, four times a week, and Lionel's pay made her life comfortable. It didn't seem like a bad exchange.”

Anders supposed that he could commiserate. He couldn't imagine what it would be like to have to stay on the run with family involved. “I'm not judging you, Bethany.”

Bethany's fingers twisted in the robes in her lap, then she let out a loud huff of breath. “All right. I'm going to trust you on something.” Dropping her voice, she added quietly, “I know a way out of here.”

Anders sat up sharply, staring at her, wide-eyed, though he kept his voice in a whisper. “You _do_?”

“I can't take credit. Lionel planned it, down to the very last detail, in case we ever had to leave. It's why he always seems to know where to find you. He knows every inch of this place, every area where someone might look to leave; he found the old plans in the Viscount's Keep and memorized them. He also made sure that I could get out myself if he wasn't here for whatever reason.” Bethany stared at him, her eyes reddened, her face pale. “I'll take you with me if you promise me that you'll help me find him once we're free.”

“Other mages-”

“Everyone here is afraid of Meredith in their own way, even the First Enchanter. You're not. I can't trust anyone else on this. We'll be breaking curfew.”

“If you ever came back, you'll be made Tranquil.”

“I'll rather be made Tranquil,” Bethany said defiantly, “Than spend the rest of my days safe and alone, wondering if my brother died because I was too afraid to go out and look for him.”

Anders thought this over carefully. Justice didn't seem to think Bethany capable of trickery – though the spirit remained wary. Her regard for her brother, however, was obviously genuine. “What if we don't find him? What if he's-”

“If he's... beyond help,” Bethany swallowed a lump in her throat, her eyes shining for a moment before she rubbed them, “Then I'll count all debts between us concluded. Once I see it with my own eyes.”

“It's a deal.” Anders said, deciding to broker his freedom on a chance – it seemed like a little of a long shot, but he'd gambled on less before. “Thank you for trusting me. I'll help you, but what makes you think that we'll be more successful where the templars haven't been?”

“We aren't allowed outside contact right now, but I've been getting my messages. My source is confident that he's pinpointed where Lionel went, after the Rose. He wrote to me today. I need to see this through myself, and not even Thrask will take me with him. Even if he believed me.”

“When can we leave?”

“It'll be soon. Tomorrow. I'll find you.” Bethany squeezed his hand. “Thank you. I'm glad that we met you.”

“I doubt your brother shares your opinion,” Anders said wryly.

“I wouldn't know about that,” Bethany said, with a faint smile, and let herself out of the room before a startled Anders could think about questioning her.

XI.

It turned out that the Gallows building had servant's entrances to parts of the living quarters, which had long fallen into disuse, bricked up or blocked by furniture. It was with a sense of heavy irony that Anders realized that the entrance that Bethany was using was in the library, the first place where he had ever discussed his attempted escape plans with Karl.

The library was silent and empty, almost haunted, and people had left little tokens on and around Mharen's counter since she had gone missing; dried, pressed flowers, hand-stitched toys, scrawled cards and windmills cut out of paper, painted in festive purple – Mharen's favorite colors. It was painful to look at them, more painful still when Anders picked out a white card sequestered in a corner of the makeshift shrine, in a familiar, looping handwriting, with three simple words in stark black: _Please be safe_. Karl's card.

Swallowing hard, he followed Bethany to a corner of the library, where she felt along the stone walls, her eyes narrowed in concentration, until there was a dull click, and a section of the wall turned inwards into total darkness. The architect of the Gallows had evidently read one too many adventure stories.

Bethany conjured a small ball of white light in her hands once they stepped into the darkness and pushed the stone door shut behind them. The passage had been disused for a long time, and the air smelled chokingly musty. From how confidently Bethany hurried on before him, Anders gathered that the Hawke siblings had _rehearsed_ this. A fail-safe. The amount of planning and patience that Lionel had put into this was impressive, and even Justice seemed to agree.

He had been warned not to talk – just in case – until they were out in the open, and the winding servant's passage seemed to go on for _ever_ , occasionally branching off into side passages or into forks. Bethany always unerringly turned down a path once she came to a branch, and occasionally they walked through old storage chambers, filled with rotted cleaning equipment and crumbling crates.

Eventually, they came to an apparent wall, but the air smelled fresher, crisper, and he could hardly contain his impatience as Bethany pressed against the wall and felt along it until there was another click, and there, in a silver of sky as the wall swivelled on its grooves, was the gorgeous, endless night.

Bethany picked her way down a weathered path to the remains of a jetty, and just offshore was a small boat, within which were two hooded figures. “We'll have to swim,” she whispered to Anders apologetically, as though that was any barrier to him before. He nodded to her, still unable to speak, as he pushed the wall back in place and waded out into the icy waves, careful to keep an eye on Bethany in case the currents changed.

The short figure in the boat hauled them up with surprising strength, and, shivering and wrapped in blankets on the boat, Anders blinked as he realized that Bethany's accomplices were a Rivaini woman, all sun-darkened skin and improbable jewellery, and a beardless dwarf with an irrepressible grin that was visible under his hood.

“I've never stolen anyone from a Circle before,” the Rivaini woman murmured, as the dwarf began to row them away. “Easy as pie.”

“Wait till we're home free before you start celebrating, Rivaini,” the dwarf muttered, though he smiled up at Bethany. “See, Sunshine? I told you that you could count on me. It's a pleasure to finally meet you.”

“This is Varric Tethras,” Bethany whispered, between chattering teeth. “My brother met him at the Hanged Man once by sheer accident and hasn't been able to shake him since, apparently. He's really rather sweet, and his letters are always fun to read.” Turning to Varric, she added, “You're even more colorful than I imagined.”

“Pleased to hear it,” Varric said genially. “This is Isabela, a consultant. I hate to play to racial stereotypes, but I'm not particularly good with boats or navigation.”

Isabela. Isabela. The name sounded vaguely familiar. The Rivaini woman chuckled suddenly, as though coming to the same conclusion. “I know you. You're that runaway mage who was at the Pearl, with that delightful electricity trick!”

“Ohh.” Anders squirmed under Bethany's arched eyebrow. “Yes. Isabela. You were, uh, that ship's Captain. Ah, pleased to meet you again.”

“I didn't get your name the last time. Pity.” Isabela purred.

“It's Anders.” Anders muttered, staring pointedly at the dark waters, even as Justice prodded curiously and with some distaste at the unbidden, drunken memory.

“Well then, it's a pleasure to know that I assisted someone fun,” Isabela said cheerfully. “Little to the right, Tethras.”

Varric obliged, angling the boat against the waves. “So what next, Sunshine?”

“Once we're in Kirkwall, you'll have done everything that Lionel has paid you for,” Bethany said.

“I meant, what are you doing next?”

“You've told me where you think my brother is. What do you think I'm doing next?”

“Your brother doesn't strike me as the damsel in distress sort,” Varric said, sounding amused. “And honestly, Sunshine? If he couldn't handle whatever it was in there, I'm not sure that you can.”

“I have help.” Bethany said, lifting her chin. “Anders said he would help me.”

Anders found himself being subject to a slow scrutiny from both Isabela and Varric. “What?”

“Let me put it this way,” Varric said dryly, “You and Blondie here might still not be enough.”

“Thanks for vote of confidence,” Anders said.

“What other choices do I have? I don't have coin, and I won't worry Mother over this.”

Varric sighed loudly, even as he rowed faster. The Gallows was growing farther away behind Anders' back, watchtowers and gates lit with menacing lights. “Tell you what, Sunshine. I'll go with you.”

“You will? Why?”

“It could be interesting. Your brother attracts trouble. And trouble makes for good stories,” Varric smiled. “I like stories.”

“You like making them up, you mean,” Isabela inserted helpfully.

“Same thing, Rivaini.”

“If you want to come along... I suppose there's no harm. Lionel trusts you, anyway.” Bethany looked a little relieved at the thought. “I... I don't know what to say. Thank you so much. And you as well, Isabela, for coming here.”

“Don't mention it. Tethras paid well.” Isabela grinned wickedly.

Anders and Justice did know what to say about the apparent helpfulness of the two rogues – Varric and Isabela were clearly just two facets of the same sort of scoundrel – but he kept his peace. They _could_ use the help, and the faster they found Lionel Hawke, or whatever was left of him, the faster he could leave.

 _No_ , Justice cut in, the sharp rebuke knife-like in his mind. _You must stay and fight. Running is not an option when there is so much that is wrong with the Kirkwall Circle._

 _We need to lie low for a while. And we won't be able to do that in Kirkwall_ , Anders pointed out. He'd had enough of Kirkwall and its Circle for now, and it wasn't as though he couldn't assist the mage cause from elsewhere in the Free Marches.

 _We will not show cowardice. You shall NOT,_ Justice snarled in his mind, making him flinch – the word had stabbed in like a hot blade. _You will stay. Until we have a solution. Until the mages are free._

“Anders? Are you all right? You look pale,” Bethany said, concerned.

“I'm fine. Little cold,” he managed to murmur, his mind whirling with disquiet even as Justice subsided slowly. Maker, what had he _done_ to himself?

“Blondie's probably just on the verge of catching his death, what with that dip the two of you had to take. I've got a change of clothes for the both of you at a bolthole at the Docks,” Varric assured them. “Just bear it for a little longer.”

XII.

Dry, warm and dressed in faded, but comfortable brown tunics and gray breeches like a merchant, with Bethany in a dull green and white frock, Anders was beginning to feel better about the entire enterprise. The usual exhilaration he normally felt upon a successful escape was tempered by the ugly incident with his passenger and the considerable debt that he still owed to Bethany, but it still felt _good_ to be a free man.

“All right, here's the brief to update Blondie,” Varric murmured, as they hurried through the Docks, keeping as much to the shadows as possible to avoid the roaming groups of thugs. Before she had parted ways with them, Isabela had mentioned that safety in the city had been growing worse, with the continued corruption and mismanagement of the city guard; the carta, the Sisters, and other cartels had begun to divide the Kirkwall night between themselves.

“You can skip past the 'how' to the 'who' and 'what',” Anders suggested, and Varric instantly assumed an injured expression.

“You're not interested in the ingenuity that was required to track Hawke to his last position?”

“You probably put out a few eyes and ears and eventually tracked down a lone templar matching his description to someplace terribly unsavory.”

“You're not nearly as fun as I thought you were on a first impression,” Varric said sadly. “Most unfortunate. Be as that may, I've narrowed it down to one of the disused pathways through the Undercity beneath Darktown. Local denizens have reported strange sounds and the occasional light show from the tunnels and have thought it haunted. So-”

“There's going to be a nearly eighty per cent chance that blood magic is involved?” Anders suggested.

Varric arched an eyebrow at him. “If I wasn't a dwarf, I'll accuse you of reading my mind, Blondie.”

“We've all had a trying week,” Bethany said diplomatically. “And if Meredith is to be believed, there's been a growing upward trend towards blood magic in Kirkwall. Lots of desperate apostates here.”

Anders privately reflected that he had been an apostate, on and off, for much of his adult life, and had never, ever even considered using blood magic, even during the most desperate of times. Still, he was blessed with a growing and considerable ability to draw from the Fade. Other mages might not have been so lucky. “Undercity's not a very good place to go walking around. Maker, _Darktown_ isn't a good place to go walking around at this time of day.”

“We don't need to worry about that,” Bethany said confidently. “I've taken care of it.”

“This is the part that she wouldn't tell me about,” Varric confided out loud with Anders. “And that worries me.”

Despite his concerns, Darktown turned out to be remarkably... incident free, though Anders did note a group of dwarves grumbling to themselves and limping away when they walked out of the service shaft. The reason for this soon became apparent when Varric led them through an archway towards the entryway to the Undercity, and held up a hand quickly for silence. Before the old mining shaft that led downwards to the Undercity was a lone guardswoman, carrot-haired and freckled, her face screwed up in an expression of concentration as she rammed her shield heavily into a carta thug's face, breaking his nose, then slammed the pommel of her blade into the back of another thug's skull.

As both thugs dropped, unconscious, the remaining thug dropped his dagger and fled, hurrying up past them on the stairs, short legs pistoning in fear. Varric made a quick grab for Bethany, but Hawke's sister had already descended the stairs towards the guardswoman, smiling broadly. “Aveline! You made it.”

Aveline turned around with a quick, answering smile, which faltered as she took in Varric and Anders himself. “Bethany. I won't ask how you got out of the Gallows.”

“Lionel might be in danger, or worse. I couldn't stay.”

“I'm not questioning it. If I were you, I'll have done all I could to leave, as well.” Aveline wiped her blade on one of the unconscious thug's breeches and sheathed it at her hip. “Who are your friends? Can they be trusted?”

“That's a really blunt question to ask on a first date,” Varric quipped, and a scowl crept quickly over Aveline's freckled face.

“Lionel knows the both of them,” Bethany said, a little evasively, but this seemed to settle it for Aveline, who nodded curtly.

“If they're friends of your brother, then that's good enough for me. Well then, let's get started.”

The undercity managed somehow to be an even ranker version of Darktown – it was Darktown without the token sewage facilities, filled with the most desperate and destitute, home to smugglers, thieves, murderers and the dregs of humanity. Anders knew some templars who would have felt at home here. As Bethany had predicted, many of the undercity's denizens simply faded away upon recognising Aveline's armor, or perhaps word of the guardswoman's singlehanded assault on Darktown's dubious night life had already filtered through. Anders mentally filed Aveline under his broad list of people Never to Ever Annoy.

“I really appreciate what you're doing for us, Aveline,” Bethany was saying earnestly. “I gather life hasn't been easy for you in the guard. If you got into any sort of trouble at all-”

“Don't worry about it, Bethany. I've already been thinking of tendering my resignation,” Aveline said quietly. “It's been growing worse. I can't help but believe that Jevan is purposefully mismanaging the patrols. We've already lost good guards – friends of mine, good people. Brennan, Donnic... more. I'm not the only one thinking of leaving. Soon all that'll be left in the guard would be Jevan's dubious associates.”

“Can't you... expose him somehow?” Bethany asked, looking downcast.

“I can't. Not without help. Maker, but I could have used any sort of aid from you and your brother with this, from the start, when I first had my suspicions,” Aveline sighed. “But I knew that any unsanctioned business that isn't Templar business is heavily frowned upon by Meredith, and the two of you were still settling in to the Gallows. I couldn't risk Hawke getting discharged for my own personal business; I know that his pay supports Leandra. And of course, you couldn't leave. Or I thought you couldn't.”

“Not at that time, I couldn't. But I can't imagine you leaving the guard,” Bethany said unhappily. “You seemed so happy in your letters when you said that you had been offered a position.”

“We won't be leaving save in name,” Aveline said, thoughtfully. “The others and I were thinking of forming a... counter organisation, because of Jevan's failure to do his duty. We'll keep the peace, or try to.”

“You think that forming a vigilante group is really going to help the situation?” Varric asked dryly, even as Justice extended a note of approval in Anders' mind that made him grimace.

Aveline shot a scowl at the dwarf over her heavily armored shoulder. “What else can we do? Jevan has a lot of support from the nobles now, and I suspect that he has built strong ties with the Coterie. Somehow, he's managed to consolidate his position, perhaps through bribes. We'll never be able to petition the Viscount to depose him, even if we had some sort of damning evidence.”

“Maybe after all of this-” Bethany began, only for Aveline to cut her off.

“After all this, even if we manage to find your brother alive and well, surely you recognise that you have to start running. You're an apostate again, Bethany. If you stay in Kirkwall, if you get caught, you'll be turned Tranquil. You and your family have been very kind to me, even if I don't always see eye to eye with Hawke. I don't want that to happen to you. It'll destroy Leandra.”

“You're right.” Bethany sighed. “You usually are.”

“Must be a character flaw,” Varric murmured.

“She scares me,” Anders admitted.

“Be quiet. We're moving into disused territory,” Aveline said severely, as Varric pointed them towards a large, open grate that led into a dry sewer tunnel.

As it turned out, Anders was right after all. A band of particularly crazy blood mages with remarkably bad taste in makeup had set up shop deep within the sewer network, and excising them would have been impossible with just himself and Bethany. Varric was a crack shot, and he seemed fearless – the crazy dwarf was whistling some tune under his breath as he loosed bolt after bolt – and Aveline seemed as unstoppable a force of destruction as Hawke himself.

Anders was healing a nasty gash on Aveline's flank when Varric let out a curse, Bethany a gasp – the two of them had been investigating the chambers past the main makeshift living hall where they had encountered the mages. Afraid of what he would find, Anders and Aveline hurried to them, only to blink and stare in amazement.

Suspended in the air, with threads of gold light twisting around him, was Lionel Hawke, curled in a fetal position, stripped bare to the waist, his broad chest rising and falling slowly, as though in sleep. Beneath him was a pentagram, painted in blood that looked – and smelled – fresh, but Hawke seemed unscathed. Even as Anders bent to inspect the pentagram, Bethany reached out for her brother.

“Sunshine!” Varric warned, but it was too late. A thread of gold caught Bethany's outstretched fingers, and she abruptly dropped, unconscious. Instinctively, Anders leaned up to catch her, and the gold thread brushed his cheek. The world blurred in a dizzy spiral to black.

XIII.

He had been trying to avoid the Fade ever since taking on a passenger, but to Anders' surprise, looking down at his hands as he stood in the middle of a large golden wheat field, the sky and the trees smudged and wavering like a mirage around and behind him, his hands were his to control, and they weren't lined with the spirit's blue, crackling magic. In fact, he couldn't feel Justice's presence at all.

Blinking, he looked around, only to see Bethany staring at him, dressed in clothes that he didn't recognise. “Mother? What are you doing here?”

His _hands_. They did seem rather... smaller... than he remembered... “Oh, for the love of...! I'm never, ever going to be able to face your mother again.” Even his _voice_ was Leandra's.

“ _Anders_?” Bethany squeaked. “What are _you_ doing wearing Mother's form? That's... that's disgusting! Drop it immediately!”

“It's not _me_ doing it!” Anders took a tentative step forward, and wobbled. “Even the suspension is all wrong,” he moaned. “How do you women manage to walk with all that odd weight?”

Bethany glared at him. “I can't believe you just... I'm going to kill you.”

“Wait.” Anders hastily held up his hands. “We're in the Fade for a reason. I don't know what this place is meant to look like, but once we figure that out, that should clue us in to why we're here.”

“It's our farm in Lothering,” Bethany scowled, pointing at a small cottage in front of them, at the edge of the field. From the cottage, a dirt road led away, winding until it eventually merged with a wider, longer road that met up with a smudge on the horizon that was probably a town. “That used to be our house. It's gone now. The darkspawn burned it. And it's not accurate. That extension to the right side of the cottage was never there. And our field was never this big.”

There was only one conclusion to this. “We're in your brother's dream. Demons took over Wilmod and Keran, likely through something like this. It's a honey trap that a demon's constructed to trick your brother. He must have resisted dreams like this all this while, if he's still suspended like he is outside in the real world, but we should hurry. Desire demons are tricky.”

“I still don't understand why you're in my mother's form,” Bethany snapped.

“All dreamers exert a little control over their personal dreams. Their experiences and desires shape it, as do their subconscious. I think your brother knows, deep down, that this is a trick. He's probably placed us in figures that he recognises and trusts.”

“You'll never in a million years pass as Mother.”

“ _Exactly_. We're going to have to convince him that all of this is wrong. Gently. Non-mages have a tenuous relationship with the Fade. You don't want to damage his mind.”

Bethany frowned at him, her arms folded. “What was the thing that Elliana gave me after class four days ago?”

“What? Why are you asking me that?”

“So I know whether you're an illusion, obviously.”

Anders rolled his eyes. “It was a picture of a green apple, and if I was a desire demon, I could have read your mind anyway to find out.”

“That's so reassuring.”

“Can we just get to business?” Anders didn't feel up to explaining how the desire demons tended to work. They weren't subtle enough to come up with creative, antagonistic dialogue if you kept up a firm mental defence, and Bethany's instant shock and disgust at his enforced form couldn't have been thought up by one of them. Even as Bethany should have figured that a desire demon couldn't have been subtle enough to formulate a trap that obviously didn't involve some sort of immediate temptation. They worked on strong desires, ones that they could immediately read, and strong desires tended to be unsubtle.

“All right . But if we need to gently ease him out of whatever this is, I need you to shut up. You can pitch in if we get attacked by the demon.”

“I can't believe that you're being so rude to your mother,” Anders couldn't help but grin. “Do you want to get sent to your room without any supper?”

Bethany wiped her palm over her eyes. “If you say that to me again I will punch you in the face.”

“Suddenly, it's very clear that you and Lionel are related.”

They pushed through the wheat field, heading towards the cottage. The rest of the world beyond the fence was blurred and undefined, so Hawke definitely had to be either within the wheat field or inside the cottage. Bethany braced herself before the door, taking a deep breath, and opened it.

The Hawke cottage was a homely, sprawling affair, with a hand-stitched 'WELCOME' on a rug immediately beyond the door, and a few framed childish scrawls that lined the left wall. A fireplace was built to his right, with a few odd gewgaws lining the mantle, probably from the country fair, with a porcelain mabari in a pride of place at the centre. A lambskin had been draped over a divan with what looked like home-made cushions upon it, and, stretched over the lambskin, was himself. With Hawke on top. Kissing him. Rather enthusiastically, at that, with 'Anders's hands stroking up over Hawke's bared back, Hawke's hands buried in the doppelgänger's hair, the thumb of his left hand hooked in the hem of his breeches.

Bethany let out a gasp, even as Anders blinked, open-mouthed. “Sweet flaming Andraste's knickerweasels!” So much for keeping in character.

Hawke jerked up from 'Anders', blinking at them, and he actually - _smiled_. Not even the evil, I'm-about-to-break-your-fingers smile that Anders had seen him give some recruits before. It was a genuine, warm smile, and it pared away the hard angles on his features, the grim set to his mouth, and, against all odds, turned his cold, severe face _handsome_. “You're both back early. How was the fair?”

Anders glared at 'Anders', who was frowning at them, as though he'd just seen something unpleasant, and Maker, Anders probably had to do something about that stubble when he woke up. And the ponytail was rather more unflattering than he really thought- _no, no, no. Irrelevant thoughts. Concentrate, Anders!_ Before he could snap something, however, Bethany cleared her throat. “Uh. The fair was er, fine.”

“Didn't Carver and Father come back with you?”

So there were actually _two_ male figures in Hawke's life, and somehow Hawke's subconscious had placed him in Leandra's form instead of one of them. Brilliant. He didn't really want to know if this had some sort of dirty connotation. His mind would probably explode from the implication. He'll never be able to meet Leandra's eyes again. Ever.

“They were... busy! Yes. They were busy.”

Anders stifled the urge to sigh. Bethany was _really_ bad at playing along. Sure enough, Hawke frowned, getting off 'Anders' with an apologetic downward glance. “Did something happen, sister?”

“Well... not as such... but...” Bethany hedged. “I mean, other than the house...”

From the couch, 'Anders' sat up, and clicked his fingers. Instantly, Hawke's eyes went blank and glassy, and the demon curled to its feet, its assumed form shaking away from it to its true form, an exquisite woman, with a coiled tail, floating over the ground, every gesture and arch laced with an elegance that was immortally beautiful.

“Mortals. Do not interrupt.”

“Demon! Leave my brother alone!” Bethany hissed, fire crackling at her fingertips.

“It's been so very long already, little human girl,” the demon purred. “It's been difficult – your brother is most intractable – but I found his levers, finally, only recently, bottled in the deepest part of his mind. Lust does seem to be the weakness of the strongest of wills, after all.”

“Somehow, I feel far more disturbed than I was when I first appeared here,” Anders said slowly, and thankfully in his usual voice, wide-eyed. Hawke's desire was _Anders himself_? And a cottage and a wheat field in the middle of nowhere? That couldn't be right. He couldn't quite reconcile this conclusion with the, grim, usually taciturn Lionel Hawke who seemed to wade into war as though it was his element, always appearing out of seemingly nowhere whenever he was... really... needed...

“If we kill you, then he'll be free.”

“Or thoroughly damaged,” the demon said, with a shrug of its slender shoulders, glancing at Anders with a teasing smile. “As you would know, mage-host. Entwined so long with my kind, you would but lose more and more of yourself. Two souls in one shell destroys them both, does it not, Grey Warden? Similarly, place a soul and a spirit in one shell, and inevitably, one subsumes the other.”

“What's she talking about, Anders?” Bethany asked nervously.

“Choose your allies a little more wisely, little mage girl,” the demon smiled. “Your friend here has been carrying a passenger for quite a while. One of my kind.”

“Anders?”

Anders ignored Bethany's disbelieving query. “Justice is _not_ like you!”

“Oh it is... in a sense. And it is weaker than I. As you can tell, for I have shut it out. Dearest Tarohne has been looking for a strong vessel for me, for so very long. And now I have it.”

“I'll die rather than hand my brother over to you!”

“No one needs to die, dear girl. Your brother will be happier here. Can't you see?” The demon waved her arm around the cottage. “He cannot gain any of this outside of the Fade. When was the last time you saw him smile like this? He's lost so very much. Given up so very much. Outside, he's a mere, angry shell of his former self, bitter and twisted. Don't you wish that you could change that?”

“Well,” Bethany wavered, “I...”

“Don't listen to it,” Anders hissed. “It'll only lie to you.”

“And as to you,” the demon purred, “I've already shown you that I'm stronger than your passenger. It's not too late for you to separate. Don't you already feel freer? A little more light-hearted? Perhaps you'll feel a little hollow when you return, but you and Justice will have parted ways. A tempting thought, is it not? Justice is quite notoriously difficult to get along with. It must so always have its way. And it'll get worse, mortal child. Justice is unforgiving, and humans are all flawed. Soon, you and it will turn on your friends, on the rest of the world, and you'll die for it, with misery and destruction in your wake.”

“I don't believe you,” Anders said quickly, but the desire demon's words struck a deep, true chord within him. Justice was already so unforgiving of people like Karl, anyone it deemed too 'weak' to follow its cause. Someday, years into the future, if Justice truly did take over more and more of Anders himself, what could mere disapproval manifest into? “I don't.”

“But you do. That's why you look so afraid, sweet thing. But worry not. I almost have what I want – I just need a little more time, 'tis all. Give that to me, and I'll set you free. And as to you,” the demon turned to Bethany, “I'll leave your petty little city. But I promise by the blood of my sisters that I'll keep your brother happy. Happier than he ever could be otherwise.”

“If you think that I'll deal with a demon and stake someone else's life on something I want, you're mistaken,” Anders growled, taking a deep breath, and Bethany blinked at him before slowly shaking herself, like shrugging off a charm, and a glyph drew itself into place beneath the demon, bright and stark.

It dispelled the ward quickly with a contemptuous flick of its wrist. “Fools, to face me within the Fade itself! I'll enjoy destroying your little minds.”

Shades rose out of the ground all around them, and through the door, Anders could see a revenant coalescing. _Fantastic_. This was a _great_ time for Justice to be missing, actually.

There was a faint, familiar touch on his mind at that thought, and Anders concentrated, even as he swept his hand out to encase the shades before him in ice, formulating his thoughts the best he could into a psychic point. _Justice!_

“Stop that,” the demon snarled, raising its slender hands over its delicate horns, drawing a seething mass of purple energy between its palms, but there was a sudden roar, outside, and a tear opened in the air beside the revenant.

A spirit stepped out, as tall as the revenant but hulking and broad-shouldered, dressed in ornate silver armor lined with white fur, carrying a massive greatsword lined in blue flame, like some sort of wild barbarian of old. No face could be seen under the helm, only two baleful points of icy fire, as the newcomer swept its blade brutally downwards, severing the revenant as though its bone and armor gave no resistance.

“What is _that_?” Bethany yelped, wide-eyed.

“The cavalry. I hope.” Anders cast a dispel on the desire demon, silencing it in the middle of its chant, even as Bethany drew a barrier around them both, throwing fire and lightning from her fingertips.

The armored spirit sundered the shades that flocked to face it with broad swings of its blade, and shouldered into the now seemingly tiny cottage room. With another heavy arc of the greatsword, the frozen shades shattered with unearthly howls and faded to nothing, even as Anders and Bethany hastily grabbed the still, unmoving Hawke by his arms and bodily dragged him clear, to the fireplace.

“You. How did you leave my maze?” the demon hissed, drawing silver and gold light around its lithe form, tail lashing behind it.

“Trick me once, and shame me for it, daughter of the Eighth,” the spirit rumbled, whirling with unnatural grace to impale a shade on his blade, then sweeping his weapon down in a follow-through to behead the next, until only it and the desire demon were left. “But to try and trick me twice with the same trap was arrogance itself. I knew the key to your trap since the last. It was not too difficult to cut my way through once I had a focal point.”

“ _Justice_?” Anders said, incredulous.

“ _That's_ what you've been carrying in your head? Why did you need any help against Oster and the others?” Bethany demanded, equally wide-eyed with astonishment.

“I've grown stronger since we last met, third among the Children, but I know my limits.” The desire demon took a step back. “Victory is yours today.”

“Not while you yet exist.” Justice lunged forward, even as the demon hastily began to open a tear in the trap behind it – too late, for the greatsword stabbed through its chest with such force that the tip buried itself in the wall of the cottage behind her. The demon made a choking, gasping sound, before fading away into dark ashes. Contemptuously, Justice jerked its greatsword from the wall and sheathed it at its back, a little awkwardly. Standing tall, the horns on its helm brushed and scraped against the ceiling of the cottage. “My host.”

“Thanks for the save,” Anders said warily. “This is the Fade. You're free now, aren't you?”

“So I am. And I never thought that this could be due to the machinations of a daughter of the Eighth. Fate turns all of us down unexpected paths.” Justice seemed to hesitate, then it added, stiffly, “For what it is worth, I... apologize for the pain that I have caused you. Had I known what would occur if I possessed a still living host, I would not have done so. Trapped in your colorless world, within your mortal shell, I... changed. Your world functions in shades of grey. For creatures like us – that is both incomprehensible and frustrating.”

“No,” Anders swallowed. “I had too much anger. Too much resentment. I think that poisoned you. The fault wasn't yours.”

“That... isn't what I expected,” Bethany had unconsciously shuffled closer to her brother, holding on to his arm tightly. “There are _friendly_ spirits?”

“There was one with one of the Senior Enchanters in Ferelden. A spirit of Faith, she called it. She taught a few of us how to call upon it, those whom she felt had the proper mindset and propensity for healing, but I've never been able to establish the connection after I took up with Justice.”

“The First Child works in subtler ways.” Justice said solemnly. “That is not in my nature. I think it best if we part ways here, my host. I will find another, better way to aid your cause.”

“I think that's best, as well.” Anders said, relieved that he wasn't about to have to fight it after watching Justice tear through ranks of shades, a revenant and a powerful desire demon. The demon had clearly lied when it had said that it was stronger than Justice. He should have known that. And as for the rest of its words-

“The daughters of the Eighth weave truth with their lies. Having subsisted in your mind over all those months – some damage has been done. But your friend is in a worse condition. The daughters are subtle, but they care little about the well-being of their host. His mind is in fragments.”

“No,” Bethany let out a low sob. “That can't be. We were too late?”

“Can it be fixed?” Anders asked, even as he knew how foolish his words sounded even to himself.

“He's lost pieces of his Self, what your kind call the 'soul',” Justice stepped forward, bending a little to look into Hawke's blank eyes. “Perhaps... perhaps there is a way. What was lost was recent... I still see the open scars. Perhaps there is still time.”

“What way? What needs to be done?” Bethany demanded.

Justice turned to Anders. “You know the First Child. Do you trust her?”

“It's given me – and the others – no reason not to.”

“Then let me call her here. This is work that is more suited for her skills.” Justice pressed a palm outwards, to his right, and the world beyond it shuddered, swirling, like paint in a glass of water. After a heartbeat, a slender, feminine form appeared, dressed in gray robes, her face lined with age, eyes white pupils of energy, and as she smiled at Anders he felt a deep, answering bell within him, a sense of peace and recognition.

“Oh, child, what have you done to yourself?”

“You'll have to specify, milady,” Anders managed a smile despite himself, then added, somewhat to his personal surprise, and honestly, “I've missed you.” He just hadn't known how much he had missed the connection until now.

“Wynne has missed you as well. You should write to her.”

“Her? Hardly. She was always complaining about something. If it wasn't my posture, it was what I ate, or the trouble I get into, my hair, my earrings, it went on _forever_.”

“She loves all the children who grow up under her watch, and you are no different.” Faith inclined her head, and turned to regard Bethany. “And as to you, child. You have a strong heart, and a kind soul. Should you ever decide to learn a little more in the arts of mending, write Wynne a letter. Anders will know how to contact her.”

“I... ah... thank you, milady,” Bethany said, awkwardly. “But can you help my brother? Please. I'll give you anything you want.”

“Never say that again in the Fade,” Anders said quickly.

“I mean it,” Bethany said defiantly. “Lionel would do the same for me.”

“Let me look at him.” Faith clasped Hawke's cheeks between her palms and turned him left and right, all unresisting, doll-like. “Justice was right to call me when he did. It is not irreparable. Mortal shells are like fragile cups. Pour too much into one, and they shatter and break, or overflow. Take too much from one, and you'll need to fill it back up.”

“Whatever that you need, take it from me,” Justice said, to Anders' surprise. “I owe a debt.”

“If it's like the last time, I'm not sure that it's worth it for any of us,” Anders pointed out. Not to mention he wasn't sure how much destruction a Hawke-Justice hybrid could wreak.

Scratch that, he was _entirely_ sure. Kirkwall would probably burn down within a week.

“I don't think we have a choice,” Bethany nibbled on her lower lip. “Unless... unless if you could take whatever you need from me.”

“Or from us both,” Anders added, if a little reluctantly. Now that Justice had left from the back of his mind, his old, healer habits seemed to be making a strong comeback.

“Mortal selves do not have the right sort of... let us call it energy,” Faith said delicately. “Entwined with another Self changes you both. It goes the same for any Child who is... unwise enough to get its Self entangled with a mortal's.”

Justice straightened stiffly, but didn't answer.

“And taking bits of Justice to patch Hawke up won't cause history to repeat itself?”

“It's possible to give just energy without giving what makes us aware. You've seen this with Wynne, with her pupils, with yourself,” Faith pointed out. “As long as the cup does not hold too much-”

“I don't care. If it'll fix my brother, just do it.” Bethany blurted out. “If we're losing time, I don't want to debate it.”

“Very well then.” Faith turned to Justice, who bowed its – his – head, until her palm pressed against his faceguard. When she pulled her hand back, she held within it a writhing ball of blue energy, and Justice seemed to shudder as he straightened again, the glow of his eyes and the blade at his back dimmer now. “This _is_ too much.”

“Give the rest of it to my host. He too, is diminished.”

“I don't need it,” Anders protested.

“You will. It has been too long. Were you to leave as you are now, you will sicken.”

“Hush.” Faith had divided the ball into two, a larger one and a small one, and the larger she pressed over Hawke's chest, _pushing_ , until the light was swallowed and her palm rested on the homespun tunic. Instantly, Hawke closed his eyes, his brow furrowing into a familiar frown, and vanished. “It is done. And as to you,” she glided over to Anders, repeating the gesture. The energy felt warm, unexpectedly soothing, and the faint, dull edge that he felt, the emptiness that he thought had merely marked Justice's absence in the back of his mind, faded. “There. And now you should wake.”

XIV.

Anders sat up sharply with a gasp, and looked quickly down upon himself to check. Male hands. Borrowed clothes. “Thank the Maker.”

“Welcome back to the land of the living, Blondie,” Varric said, looking relieved. Aveline and Varric seemed to have carried them into the communal sleeping quarters and laid them out on the blood mages' beds. He could see Aveline to his right, fussing over Bethany as she stretched and rubbed her eyes, and Hawke was already pulling on his templar armor, in a corner of the room. As he stared, Hawke met his eyes, then quickly averted his gaze.

Awkward.

“Something I should know?” The dwarf had caught the entire exchange.

“Maybe not now. It was mage business. Fade shenanigans.”

“Really? Pity.” Varric looked disappointed. “I touched the golden light after it made the two of you pass out, but nothing happened – other than me copping an impressive scolding from Aveline over there about 'stupidity' and 'irresponsibility'. It probably doesn't work on dwarves. Then she insisted on moving all of you someplace comfortable to wait it out while she investigated the area to see if we could help you. We were just on the verge of sending the First Enchanter a note.”

Anders shuddered. “It's a good thing that you didn't. Meredith would probably have followed him, then she'll kill us all.”

“She'll have to face down Aveline to do that, and frankly, I wouldn't know who to put my money on. Aww. Look at that. Warms the cockles of your heart, doesn't it?”

Over to his right, Bethany had sat up, looked around, and flown into her brother's arms, hugging him tightly, even with the full plate armor. Lionel seemed to hesitate, then he carefully returned the embrace, awkwardly petting his sister's hair. “You left the Circle.”

“I couldn't lose you. Once Varric said that he was certain that he knew where you were, I had to go.”

“That was not well advised. But,” Hawke added, when Bethany looked up with a red-eyed glare, “Thank you. All of you.”

“You probably can't return home,” Aveline said quietly. “Where will you go?”

“I had an alternative place, elsewhere in Lowtown, for such an eventuality.” Hawke said thoughtfully.

“You're known in Lowtown, after that escapade a few months ago with the Black Hand mages,” Varric pointed out.

Hawke shrugged. “If I wear a different set of armor and a helmet that should solve the problem.”

“They'll keep tabs on your relatives. Your mother,” Anders said, thinking back. “You'll have to avoid your favorite haunts. Any sort of old habit. They'll know how to check on all of those.”

“The voice of experience?” Hawke asked flatly, with a little of his usual, acerbic nature, but at Anders' even, returning stare, he looked away again quickly.

In a way, inasmuch as the word could apply to someone like Hawke, that was almost... cute. Hawke must have buried his heart's desire very deeply, to have such a reaction when reminded of it.

“I could probably consult on the subject matter.” Anders couldn't help but grin, even as Varric blinked and Bethany scowled over at him.

Hawke muttered, “I'll think of something. It's not an untenable position. At the very worst, the templars never found this place. We could hide here.”

Bethany instantly pulled a face. “Let's not. Unless we're utterly desperate.”

“I don't know about that,” Anders said brightly, “Ex-blood-mage-hideout seems like a _grand_ piece of residential history. Complete with pentagrams written in blood and dead bodies at the front door.”

“Fade shenanigans seem to have made you remarkably chirpy, Blondie.”

“You don't know half of it.” Admittedly, it wasn't a _bad_ idea, although getting to and from the hideout through the Undercity without Aveline was probably going to be difficult.

“What are you going to do next?” Bethany asked him. “You could come with us if you liked. We'll all have to lie low.”

“Bethany,” Hawke said, with a note of warning in his voice. “We have enough trouble of our own.”

Somehow, that... _hurt_ a little. Even as he had to recognise that when he had seen Hawke with the desire demon in the Fade, he had felt, deep down, a note of gratification – and another, a sliver of envy. There was an uncomfortable knot of emotion far at the back of his mind, something like a possessive want, tempered by angry resentment, and an edge of wary fear.

Which, to Anders' horror, upon closer inspection, _didn't_ belong to him. What had Faith done?

“You don't mean that,” Bethany stated. “In the Fade, I saw-”

“Bethany, don't worry about it,” Anders interrupted quickly before Hawke burst a vein, forcing a smile. He should have known better than to trust a spirit again, even one whom he was long familiar with. He had to get away from here. “There are still plenty of Ferelden refugees, I'm sure. I'll just mingle again. I'm friends with Lirene. She can set me up somewhere. I'll open my clinic again until I'm ready to leave.”

He was beginning to babble in his panic, and Hawke's eyes were narrowing, his frown deepening, as though puzzled at something. Maker, _please_ let this not be what he thought it was. It should be impossible. Perhaps the shared energy brought also with it something far worse.

“Oh, the free clinic. That was you?” Aveline sounded grudgingly impressed. “You did good work there. Saved a lot of lives. It wasn't strictly legal, but then, the law doesn't really exist right now in Kirkwall. When the other guards and I set up our organisation, perhaps we can work out an arrangement with you. We won't have funding or access to the Keep's potion supply.”

“An organisation?” Hawke glanced at Aveline.

“She's leaving the guard,” Bethany told him. “Please say something to her about it.”

“I disappear for a short while and the world seems to have shot itself in the foot with a crossbow,” Hawke said, with a touch of his usual irritable self. “Update me.”

XV.

Between Varric's connections, some old-fashioned subterfuge and Aveline's Red Guard (coined perhaps with a little less imagination than usual by Varric), the new clinic in Darktown was templar and Coterie free, and Anders found himself mired in Kirkwall for now, despite his instincts. There was a mage underground in Kirkwall that he was still trying to decide whether or not to trust to use to get out of Kirkwall, and he was sourcing other ways, just in case.

Besides, now that Justice and its Priorities were gone, his mind had settled down with a clarity that he'd never known that he had missed. Justice's hatred of demons had tempered Anders' grief on Karl, but the work at the clinic kept him busy, allowed him to slowly attempt to make his peace with it. He knew now what he had to do next, for Karl. Find Mharen – or find Mharen's killer.

Varric had been very interested in the tale when Anders had told it to him in the dwarf's suite at the Hanged Man. “White lilies from a 'secret admirer', a woman disappearing, her lover turning into a demon in his doomed rage? Sounds like a ballad in the making. But you're in luck. My people keep an eye on all the notices posted in this town. Since about a year or so ago, there's been quite a few missing persons notices. All women. Spread across Darktown, Lowtown and Hightown. I probably have some of them saved somewhere.”

“What? What for?”

“You don't like that fuzzy feeling that you get when you restore someone to their family?” Varric was rooting around one of his chests. “And the clink of coin, and the possible business connections?”

“Suddenly, I'm less impressed with you.”

“I get that a lot. But my brother and I lost quite a pretty coin on a failed venture to the Deep Roads a while back, and we've had to make up coin and our standing with the Merchant's Guild somehow. Here.” Varric fanned a set of posters of varying age and quality across his table. “Notice a trend?”

The sketches weren't always good, particularly those whose contact addresses were in Lowtown or Darktown, but... “Like you've said. They're all women.”

“Right. And they're victims from across social divides, and there's no apparent facial similarity. What we seem to have here,” Varric said, with some satisfaction, “Is a good, old-fashioned serial killer.”

There were at least _six_ notices. “Or a massive and horrible coincidence.”

“You have no soul, Blondie.”

He shuddered. “Don't mention souls to me, please.” He could still feel that knot of emotion sometimes, in the back of his mind, though of late, it seemed to hold more simmering rage, stress or worry than anything else. He was almost beginning to miss Justice. At least the spirit had occasional, long periods of dormancy. “What's Hawke gotten himself into lately?” Bethany had come by the clinic now and then, to help out, but things were usually too busy for small talk, and she had seemed unwilling to talk about what they had seen in the Fade. Small wonder. When the fun of wearing another form had faded, Anders had felt a tad ashamed about his behavior. And, like he had thought, he was never able to meet Leandra's eyes again.

“He's involved with the Red Guard, that much I know. Aveline's a friend of his family, from back when they were trying to escape the Blight, I gather. And I think he's working out some old contacts in the Gallows. It's expensive to upkeep a lyrium addiction when you're not Chantry sanctioned.”

“That's unwise.”

“He probably knows what he's doing,” Varric shrugged. “Sunshine doesn't seem worried. Anyway. Back to your white lily killer mystery. I had a feeling that you or Sunshine were going to ask me about it. A templar's been poking around recently, asking questions from the people whom my people marked out as leads.”

“A templar? Which one?”

“Gray hair, tall old man, studiously polite.”

“Emeric.” Anders guessed. Just his luck. Someone who would definitely recognise him. “He was Mharen's friend.”

“You seem surprised.”

“I'm not surprised that he's looking for her. I'm surprised that Meredith allowed anyone out of the Gallows on business that I doubt she really cares about.”

“Maybe someone leaned on her.”

Anders pulled a face. “I doubt anyone can lean on Meredith without getting their balls crushed in the process.”

“Graphic. But probably true. Anyway. Emeric told one of our contacts that he was going to check out some sort of lead in Darktown. I've got people watching the Docks. If you want, I'll let you know when he arrives. So that you'll know when to hide under a table.”

“Why do I never meet any _nice_ dwarves?”

XVI.

As it turned out, following a templar through Darktown was a blindingly simple exercise. Literally. Emeric probably spent most of his considerable and semi-retired free time obsessively polishing his breastplate until it shone like a mirror, catching every possible facet of light that was available. Anders privately cursed his curiosity, but sending someone to follow Emeric didn't feel _right_. It felt as though he owed Karl, to figure out personally what had happened to Mharen. He'll wait to see where Emeric went, then keep a vigil until the old templar left, before going in to look for clues.

A man dressed in gray iron plate armor, with a deep red twist of fabric across his shoulders and a greatsword scabbarded at his back, stood waiting patiently, his back turned to Anders, glancing down the disused mining tunnel entrance that Emeric seemed to be heading towards. Just as the templar reached a respectable distance, the man turned around, and with a sinking heart, Anders recognised the unmistakable, striking profile of Lionel Hawke.

Instead of the violent confrontation that he expected, however, Hawke merely spoke quietly with Emeric, gesturing at the tunnel, and Anders realized that the both of them had likely arranged this. Either there was a hole in Varric's intelligence network, or, more likely, Varric hadn't been telling him everything. Hawke was showing Emeric a missing persons notice – from the color of the paper and the layout that he could make from where he was hiding behind a stack of barrels, the latest victim. A lady called Ninette had disappeared from Hightown. Anders had tried to question the 'grieving' husband, only to end up disgusted by his obnoxious, self-serving attitude, and hadn't gotten very far. It was difficult to ask someone questions when one really just wanted to freeze off the interviewee's balls.

But why was _Hawke_ interested in the matter? He didn't seem to be a templar any longer... unless the Red Guard was really taking an interest in actual Kirkwall security. That was probably it. Also, the usual knot of tension had calmed into a sense of inexorable determination, which wasn't exactly any sort of relief. Didn't Hawke _ever_ have fuzzy emotions – to take one of Varric's favorite phrases?

Hawke abruptly stiffened, and he and Emeric looked around themselves. Holding his breath, Anders shrank back against the barrels, and tried to think small, distant, _invisible_ thoughts. Whether it worked, or whether Hawke decided to ignore whatever it was that he had felt, Anders didn't care, letting out a soft sigh of relief when he heard boots and leather scraping against rusting rungs. Hawke and Emeric were descending into the mining tunnels.

Waiting where he was was agonisingly difficult. His imagination tended to run wild when he was bored, and he had thought of several different scenarios involving blood mages and demons when he heard the reverberation of a dull, throaty roar. Abominations.

He was moving before he could think matters properly through, scrambling to get down the rusty ladder, finding himself on some sort of rickety old platform with partially rotted planks that led down to a large, excavated chamber. Old mining carts lay overturned or waiting on twisted, rusted rails, and, backed up against a set of carts was Emeric, clutching at his left ribs. Standing before the old templar was Hawke, facing down a trio of abominations without any hint of fear, his greatsword already bloodied with ichor.

Hawke looked up sharply when an abomination's next blow glanced off a barrier, and Anders encased the next in ice, knocking the next off balance with a stone fist. It staggered, then growled and charged him, ignoring Hawke's shout. Anders was ready. Drawing electricity into his hands, he shocked it still, light arcing from his fingertips, then he darted forward. His staff had a bladed tip, courtesy of Varric, to hide its nature, and he buried this with all the strength he could master in the creature's approximate heart.

The abomination only snarled. It pulled the staff free and _jerked_ , and Anders fell off balance with a yelp. Mottled, gnarled claws picked him up by the scruff of his neck, and dangled him with unnatural strength over the edge of the platform. Struggling ineffectively, blinking for a moment to suppress a stab of wild fear within him, Anders risked a look down, trying to calm down. If he fell at a correct angle, he'd probably only break a leg or two-

The blade of Hawke's greatsword cleaved the abomination open, and it shrieked as it let go of him, writhing back in its death throes. Anders' stomach lurched up to his mouth at the sudden, weightless sensation, then his arm felt as though it was being jerked out of its socket as Hawke grabbed him by the wrist, abruptly arresting his fall. With only a grunt of effort, the warrior dragged him back up onto the platform, before glancing back down at Emeric.

The old templar's suspicious stare eased a little when Anders applied a touch of healing magic, and he stood up gingerly, still rubbing at the dented plate. “Lionel. I should have known that you would be involved with _both_ missing apostates.”

“I've told you. One of the 'apostates' is my sister. If she'd never left, I would have died – or worse,” Hawke said curtly. “Anders has also provided an invaluable assistance. I won't turn them over to be made Tranquil just because they put themselves in danger to help eradicate the blood mages who were kidnapping the recruits.”

Emeric sighed. “Thrask and I could have put in a word for you. Once you woke, you should have returned all of them to the Gallows. Aiding and abetting apostates, that goes against the grain of the Order.”

“I never joined the Order for its dictates, only to protect my sister. If the Order will turn against Bethany, then I will stand with her. Besides, turning mages Tranquil is meant to be a last resort, or a voluntary request. If I had an assurance that Meredith was reasonable, perhaps my opinion would be different.” Hawke shot back. “And what are you doing here, Anders?”

“Mharen was my friend. Also, I heard some demons roaring and thought that I might lend a hand. To a pair of templars that promptly proceed to effectively brand me a criminal and discuss returning me to the jailhouse right in front of me. Frankly, I'm not sure what came over me. Something that I ate for lunch must have thoroughly disagreed with my entire system.”

“I'm not here for you, Anders,” Emeric said wearily. “Mharen was my friend as well. Believe that if you will. Thank you for your aid. Lionel, it's clear that I'm no longer the warrior I once was. I'll only slow you down. There's nothing here. You might want to check my other leads – I'll detail them to you in my next letter. But a word to the wise from an old campaigner,” Emeric added, as an afterthought, “Kirkwall's Circle isn't much like many of the other Circles. Because it's part of Kirkwall city whether it likes it or not, the Knight-Commanders tend to be political creatures, and Chantry dictates aren't often followed as strictly as they should be. Your Red Guard isn't popular with anyone holding the reins of power. Be careful. Meredith isn't against getting rid of a few ex-guardsmen in the name of gaining another foothold.”

“She's really that crazy?” Anders asked, unnerved. His patients had nothing but good to say about the Guard, and he'd patched up a lot of them since his agreement with Aveline, mostly gang-fight related injuries.

“She isn't the only Knight-Commander I've served under. Most of them have had an uneasy relationship at best with the Viscount, and Meredith is very ambitious. She's reached the pinnacle of power within the Order itself. Many of us feel that she seeks more.” Emeric shook his head slowly. “And you've made the Guard a target simply by being part of it, Lionel.”

“Bethany isn't involved with the Guard. I made sure of that.”

“That won't matter if Meredith decides to exercise her jurisdiction. It's within her right to claim that you're harboring apostates, and I'm sure that Aveline and her men will come to your defense should she attack you. That can't end well. The Red Guard's gaining popular support among the people. Support that the templars have traditionally enjoyed. As you can imagine, that is not to her liking.”

“Perhaps Kirkwall needs another Knight-Commander,” Hawke said grimly.

Emeric arched both eyebrows, then he chuckled. “Seditious talk, young man. I'll forget that I heard that. Maker watch over you both. I'll return to the Gallows and speak with Thrask. Perhaps there is another solution.”

Watching Emeric leave up the ladder, Anders tensed as the knot of aggression returned, at the back of his mind, twisted through with just the faintest hint of _want_ that made his mouth begin to water. Now that he knew – now that he had _seen_ the secret at the bottom of Hawke's soul, it was difficult to forget about it all, and far too easy to think about what might have been. Had Hawke not been a templar, Anders would have tried to flirt with him without a second thought, belligerent attitude or not. The man's confidence and self-assurance was electric.

But Hawke was a templar, even in his current semi-unofficial state, and old habits, old fears and old hatreds were hard to forget. “I... ah, I should get back to my clinic.”

“About the Fade, the demon's trap. I'm not very clear on what transpired. Bethany refuses to tell me.” Hawke said quietly. “I remember only impressions. Base emotions, mostly. Voices.”

“As long as it was just in the Fade. You haven't been hearing other voices, have you?” Anders asked, warily. “Especially of the nagging, opinionated sort?”

“Should I be?” Hawke frowned at him. “No. No voices. But there are... impressions all the time. Like I have another mind in my head, thinking other thoughts, someplace else, but all I can see of it are vague outlines.”

“Someone else's emotions.” Anders began to feel depressed. “Are the impressions, uh, strong?”

“Only when I'm close to you. And I want an explanation.”

“The desire demon that trapped you destroyed part of you. I called in a specialist to patch you up with what was available. Seems that there are side effects,” Anders said glibly. “Probably temporary. Let me know if you get a slight fever or rashes in strange places.”

Hawke stared at him for a long moment, as if trying to assess whether he was joking, then he looked away again. “What did you see in the Fade? I want to know.”

“You'll never believe me.”

“Just _tell_ me,” Hawke growled, and the tension in the back of his mind buzzed into a touch of anger. Instead of irritating him as it normally would, however, this close to Hawke, he felt only a thrill, a surge of adrenaline, as though he was about to dive out into a thunderstorm.

“How much do you know?” Anders retorted, thinking back to Hawke's reaction in the blood mage hideout. “You acted like you knew that I knew, when we woke.”

“I knew that you must have seen something,” Hawke said flatly. “Something dredged out from me by the desire demon. But non-mages can't recall much of the Fade once they wake. I want to know exactly what you saw.”

“Didn't your mother ever teach you how to say 'please' and 'thank you'?”

Hawke glowered at him, his big hands curling briefly into fists. “Please.”

“I'll tell you,” Anders decided to take the plunge, “If you'll also tell me why you used to follow me around when we were in the Gallows.”

Hawke's lip curled, then his expression went carefully blank. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Well then, I don't remember what it was that I saw in the Fade.”

Hawke exhaled loudly. “You are _so_...! You were a prime witness. And a mage. I knew that Karras and the others were trying to hurt you, to kill you if they could. I wouldn't let that happen. Not to you, or anyone else.”

“You're still lying.” Anders said quietly. “You want to know what I saw in your dream? Desire demons tempt people with honey traps, shaped as the things they want most. Yours was rather prosaic, to a point. Seems that deep down, what you want is a farm.” He folded his arms. “And me.”

Hawke paled, and his lips thinned, but he had the grace not to deny it, even as the aggression at the back of Anders' mind spiked for a moment before fading into an uncomfortable sense of resignation. _Sadness_. And bitterness twisted through it all, warping everything. In a moment's clarity, Anders finally understood the thorny knot that was Lionel Hawke. He was a man who constantly had to be driven over _something_ , an utterly serious soul constantly struggling to impress its sense of order and its moral code upon the rest of the world, and against this, personal, human wants only frustrated. The man was a natural templar. It was probably unfortunate that he'd come into the business so late.

And yet – Anders couldn't hate him. Just as easily as Hawke would likely unhesitatingly hand him back to the Circle if he knew that Anders would only receive a light slap across the wrist as a rebuke, heedless of what Anders thought about the matter or the oppression of Circle life in general, Hawke would also, in the same breath, just as unhesitatingly shield him if Meredith came on the warpath, and stake his own life upon it. He didn't know what to think of that. Worse, he wasn't sure if the instinctive attraction that he felt was all his, or some sort of feedback from Hawke, or if they were both affecting each other at this point-

“I'm sorry that you saw that,” Hawke said at last, clearly picking his words carefully. “Please accept my apology. If it would be of any consequence, what you saw would not have happened in reality.”

“You mean, because Lothering is a burned, blighted piece of land now so the farm isn't possible, or the other bit?” He hoped devoutly that he wasn't about to listen to anything extremely awkward, along the lines of how Hawke usually liked women or something.

Hawke was keeping a tight hold on his temper. “I'll be honest with you. I've wanted you from the moment I first saw you in Orsino's office, you with your ridiculous demands and your utter disregard for authority. I tried to ignore it and keep it hidden, but it only got worse. But acting on it would have been wrong then. I wielded power over you due to the mere fact of my status as a templar. It is still wrong now. I know that you fear me. Maybe you don't even realize it.”

“You'll put me back into the Gallows if you could,” Anders snarled. “What _do_ you expect? And what about your sister? If she didn't want to go back, would you make her?”

Hawke stared at him steadily, quietly. “If she didn't want to go back, I wouldn't make her.”

“But if you told her to go back, she would.” Anders concluded. “She would, wouldn't she.”

“Perhaps. I grew up thinking that the Circle was a dark, torturous place. I swore once that she would be taken into a Circle only over my dead body. But I know now that she'll be safer in the Circle. And she was happy there, teaching.”

Anders shuddered. “You're everything that I hate. Even though you're not wearing the shiny silver armor, you're a templar through and through.”

The bitterness that he felt seemed to intensify, before ebbing into a dark emptiness. “I know that. Had you never entered the demon's trap, you would never have known. I would have made sure of it.”

Something within him snapped at that statement. Later Anders would call it self-preservation, or, on his more honest moments, a moment of sheer insanity, but now he was growling as he strode into Hawke's personal space and kissed him savagely, his hands twisted in the maroon cloth over Hawke's shoulders, pouring out his anger, his hatred, and Maker help him, an answering want that was definitely, entirely his own. Hawke didn't seem to be the only one who was very good at denial.

Shocked, Hawke froze, unmoving, even as Anders pulled back with a frustrated sound. “Anders-”

“We're just animals to you, aren't we?” Anders hissed, his hands still curled in the red fabric. “Beasts with magic tricks to be herded around and culled whenever we're naughty or jump the fence.”

“I never said that.”

“You didn't need to. All this talk of duty and what's right and wrong are just pretty words to dress up the worst of the world's crazy.”

“My sister's a mage, Anders.”

Anders' lip curled into a sneer. “Don't tell me you've never wished that she was born without magic.”

Hawke narrowed his eyes, and Andraste help him, but Anders had to be broken in his mind somehow. The sudden surge of temper that he could feel was _heady_ , so close, the violent emotions that Hawke somehow kept bottled up under his usual stony countenance. Then Hawke took in a deep breath. “Let go of me.”

“Push me away then! You can silence my spells with a thought, probably snap my neck before I can throw a punch. I _should_ fear you.”

“I won't hurt you.” Hawke had placed his big hands tentatively against the small of Anders' back, splayed, and he could feel the heat from his palms even through leather and fabric, and Anders found himself slanting another kiss angrily across Hawke's unyielding lips with a groan of exasperation, hands clawing over short hair, licking and nipping until Hawke finally shivered, with a low moan, giving in. Anders lapped into parting lips with a purr of vicious triumph, and found himself shoved up against the grimy wall, kissed back with every inch that he had given and more, the roiling tempest of lust and hatred and need neither entirely his nor Hawke's.

“Stop this, Anders,” Hawke was gasping, in between the kisses and the moans that Anders dredged from him. “ _Stop_. Please.”

It was the desperate edge to Hawke's plea that made Anders lean his head back against the wall, flushed and breathing hard. “What's the matter?” he demanded caustically, “I know that you want me. You're a templar, even without the armor. You'll just take what you want in the end. Why draw it out?”

Hawke's amber-brown eyes had grown wide and dark, his emotions strung wire-tight into something Anders couldn't immediately place. And when he did, it was puzzling. “Regret's not a templar emotion.”

Hawke sighed out aloud, resting their foreheads together. “Breathe. Calm down. Please.”

“I...” Anders wanted to snap something back, but Hawke's big, warm hands were stroking up and down his arms, thumbs circling in soft caresses, and unwillingly, reluctantly, his breathing evened. “All right.”

“You're right,” Hawke murmured, in the inch between their lips. “I want you. But not like this.”

“Why, what then?” Anders retorted, if a little half-heartedly. “Flowers and poems and serenades?”

As his answer, Hawke closed the distance between their mouths, his lashes fluttering shut against Anders' skin, gloved fingers caressing his cheek, then cupping it as the kiss deepened, heartbreakingly tender, a bared soul, a plea. Anders knew dimly that he should bite down, pull back and snarl something, break the moment before it went too far, but he was moulding himself against Hawke, the buckles of his belt and boots catching over overlapping plate and mail, arms curled tight over Hawke's broad shoulders, locked in free-fall.

XVII.

The trick was to kiss Hawke whenever his pesky, twisted sense of duty and his templar code caught up with the rest of his brain that was geared on lust; the protests would be swallowed, forgotten, and the big man would go pliant under his hands. A _templar_. It was a form of power that Anders had never known, not over a templar, and it was throwing all of his own instincts to the wind, making him want Hawke until he was wild from it. Somehow, they made it back to his clinic without encountering any of Darktown's less than salubrious characteristics, with Hawke moaning huskily against his neck, mouthing against it as Anders fumbled with the keys and the lock on the disused ex-warehouse.

Leaving a haphazard trail of clothes and armor behind them, they didn't quite make it to Anders' bed, only to the first cot in the infirmary, still pulling and fumbling with each other's clothing. Plate armor was incredibly tricky in the dark, so many small clasps and overlapping greaves, and Hawke actually _laughed_ when Anders let out a frustrated curse and clawed ineffectively at the shoulder catches. For a moment, Anders regretted that there wasn't enough light to properly register Hawke's expression, but he knew that it was better this way. It wouldn't last, not with who he was, not with _what_ Hawke was, whether he wanted it to or not.

When the final latched piece of armor was tossed cavalierly onto the ground, Hawke had his rough hands set on Anders' shoulders, slanting their mouths together, skin on skin; hungrily, Anders stroked his fingers and palms over bunching muscle, sheened with sweat, breathed in the scent of oil, metal and leather, dazed with want. Hawke was so _warm_ , draped over him, and Anders mewled into his mouth as he arched, rubbing his arousal urgently against the sharply defined muscles at Hawke's belly. Maker have mercy, but the rumbling _growl_ that Hawke made at that nearly had him lose control there and then like a teenager.

He pushed at Hawke's shoulders, trying to squirm closer to the shelf to his left that he knew had a potion or two stashed beneath it in a hidden compartment (the pleasures of living in Darktown), but Hawke was an unyielding weight as he took his mouth again. Pinned. _Trapped_. The panic that shot through the haze of lust was an old one, born of a his earliest memories, dragged to a forbidding tower in a lake, enclosed in stone, surrounded by hostile, menacing jailers in their heavy armor.

Hawke jerked back as though he'd been slapped, and in the dark, Anders could see his shoulders heaving with the effort of restraint. “Anders?”

“Let's not try that again,” Anders said shakily, even as he finally managed to pull open the compartment and get at the potion.

“Do you... do you want to continue?” Anders couldn't quite reconcile the hesitant tone with his general impression of Hawke, just like how he couldn't quite fit in the earlier laughter, and he smiled, knowing that Hawke couldn't see it, tapping the potion against the line of one broad shoulder.

“Does this look like a 'stop' to you?”

“I can barely see anything,” Hawke muttered, but chapped lips were mouthing over his shoulder, heading frustratingly slowly downwards, and Anders let out a low whine as Hawke's mouth brushed over a nipple. “If you want me to stop, just tell me.”

As though Anders could really think at this point, the heat of Hawke's powerful, thick thighs pressed up against his rump and legs, those big hands spreading him open, gently, rubbing reassuring circles up from under his knees to his hips. “I thought templars were meant to be chaste. You've certainly done this before.”

Hawke made an irritated sound, huffing, then Anders shivered and pulled urgently at his broad shoulders as he pressed the flat of his tongue roughly up against pebbling flesh. “I didn't _start_ being a templar the usual way.”

“I hear that the Knight-Captain treated you to a sound thrashing.”

Hawke nipped him reproachfully, making him gasp, then he transferred his attention to the other nipple. “It won't happen now,” he said, with a nearly childish petulance, then added, irritably, “What?” when Anders let out a startled laugh.

“Nothing.” Anders was fighting with the stopper of the potion, mentally cursing the bottle's manufacturer, and when he finally got it open, he yelped as he splashed cool, viscous fluid onto his belly. Andraste's _knickers_.

Big fingers swiped teasingly through the fluid, then Anders was clawing at the bed and trying to relax as a thick digit pressed slowly into him. Since Justice, he hadn't slept with anyone, unsure of how the Fade spirit would react if he did, when the spirit was already so suspicious of normal human emotions, and his body was taking its time to yield.

“All right?”

“I'm fine,” Anders grit out, shivering at the slow burn as the finger pressed in, deliciously knuckle-deep. “It's just been a while.”

Hawke nodded, shifting on the bed, then he was resting his cheek over Anders' chest, listening to the hammer of his heart as Hawke worked in another finger, agonisingly slow, stroking into him until the callused pad of one finger rubbed over at the _perfect_ spot. At his buck and shocked curse at the suddenness of the spike of pleasure, Hawke let out a hungry, shaky groan of his own. Of course – the link was probably stronger for Hawke; the feedback likely more intense. Lucky bastard.

It took three big fingers before Hawke seemed satisfied that he was ready, taking the potion from him and pouring the contents onto his palm, slicking himself with jerky, impatient little motions. Anders could sympathize entirely, bracing himself on his elbows and scooting up over Hawke's thighs. A warm, slick hand rubbed up over his hip, and lips brushed over his mouth, then Hawke was pushing into him, the hard, inexorable pressure rather larger than what Anders had expected, curse the light. Even with the conscientious, slow preparation, the fit was tighter than anything that he had experienced before, and he swallowed a low hiss of pain as Hawke, after a couple of attempts, finally managed to fit even the thicker base within him. Maker, but he had never felt so _full_ before. It was intoxicating.

“Good?” Hawke whispered against his ear. Through the dull pounding of blood in his mind Anders noted and appreciated that Hawke was holding his weight over him now, with hands braced on the sheets.

“Sweet Andraste, you're _big_.” Anders hastily wrapped his legs around Hawke's waist as he felt him frown against his cheek, in case Hawke started to entertain any ridiculous ideas, like pulling away. “Give me some time.”

Hawke nodded solemnly against him, then he bent to pepper his neck with languid, teasing little kisses and sucks on his sensitive skin, until he was whimpering and squirming for it, leaning up to bare his throat. _Like an animal submitting_ , the rogue thought whispered into his mind, only to be subsumed in the next as Hawke nipped up to his jaw, and tugged him gently down for another one of those heartbreakingly tender kisses.

“Move,” Anders breathed, when they broke for air, and Hawke let out a small, wrenching sound, relief perhaps, or a reprieve, and instead of pounding him into the bed as Anders had expected, Hawke laced their fingers together and rocked into him, all deliberate slow rolls of his hips, kissing him, wet and sweet, when he moved tentatively against Hawke, bracing himself. A _templar_ was making love to him, and sweet Maker but it was better than anything he could have expected, their lusts and wants and something more entwined as tightly as their bodies in a dizzy, constant spiral. His mind still laced through with want, his chest wrung tight, Anders could still appreciate the irony.

Hawke shifted experimentally, then again, until Anders muffled a shout between their lips as the blunt, thick cap of his erection stroked up against the core of sensation within him, clenching tight around the thick flesh, making Hawke jerk his head back with a harsh cry, grinding deep. “Anders-”

“Again,” Anders said, panting, “Lionel, again.” Hawke obliged with a shallow snap of his hips that made Anders' back arch into a tight bow from the jolt of pleasure. He wasn't going to last, not like this. “Lionel, _again_ , please!” Hawke growled, a liquid rumble of sound that intensified the growing coil of _need_ within him, and it didn't take long before he was spilling between them, gasping out Hawke's name.

Hawke waited out the tremors from his release, nuzzling at his shoulders, his neck, until he nodded shakily and squeezed their fingers tight. His rhythm grew erratic, then rougher, until with a low, strangled cry, Hawke shuddered against him, twisting deep to fill him with his seed.

“Not yet,” Anders murmured thickly, keeping his legs where they were when Hawke made as though to pull out. Even softened, he could feel the stretch of flesh within him, and he made a mental note to do this the next time someplace with good lighting, Maker take his reservations.

Hawke hummed against his shoulder, still taking his own weight on his arms effortlessly, then he shifted, and Anders whimpered as he felt a finger press up inside his wet channel, against spent flesh, _rubbing_ , and Hawke probably didn't know about the side effects of being a Warden. He grit his teeth as his prick began to stir against Hawke's belly, and the templar made a surprised sound.

“It's a Warden thing.”

“Really.” Hawke was... Hawke was _adding_ another finger. Anders moaned, a high, strung-out urgent sound. “However did all of you find enough time to fight the darkspawn?”

Hawke had made a _joke_. This was definitely some sort of terrible and licentious Fade dream. “What are you going to do about it?”

“I'll need some time myself,” Hawke admitted, pressing a kiss over his forehead. “But it won't be a problem to sate you again with just my fingers.”

Arrogant bastard. Anders opened his mouth to retort something to that effect, and the words choked into a moan as fingers ground in, knuckle-deep and perfect.

XVIII.

The days settled into an uneven routine, and he was beginning to welcome it. The Red Guard had wrested a sense of order over Darktown and parts of Lowtown, and although there were reports of the occasional clash with the city guard itself, these were growing rarer. Somehow, Varric and Hawke had found the coin to outfit the Guard, and under Aveline's leadership and training, the patrols were organised and evenly assessed.

Templar teams could now be seen patrolling Hightown, however, and as such, Aveline and Hawke agreed not to touch it for now, instead concentrating on keeping the peace on their territory, with a view of expanding further over Lowtown. The poorer folk with their lack of private guards needed it more, anyway.

The alliance with the Coterie had been brokered by Varric, and a lot of persuasion had been needed for Aveline and Hawke to agree to it. With the Coterie's considerable information network, rival criminal gangs were easier to snuff out, crimes far easier to solve. Unfortunately, however, Emeric's leads all petered out to nothing, only grisly, inconclusive finds of human remains and Ninette's ring. Varric promised to keep an eye out, but Anders didn't hold much hope for it. Whatever had been done to Mharen, he hoped that it was quick and painless.

His... understanding... with Hawke grew into an unpredictable creature. Hawke was intractable even to his friends, and Anders had seen more than one flaming row between Hawke and Aveline. It seemed odd and extremely ill-advised to allow the creature to develop into something that he knew he didn't want to live without, even with the constant, background knowledge of Hawke's unyielding principles, of his stance on the civil rights of mages. It seemed better, overall, to live apart, and meet only at his clinic or at the Hanged Man for their trysts.

Life had been growing comfortable regardless, and as such, even as he had thought this through as one possible scenario, when Hawke finally broke his decision to him, it had still hurt. Anders had known something was up when Hawke sat down heavily on the edge of his cot at the clinic rather than reaching for him.

“Tomorrow, I'll be meeting the Knight-Captain in Hightown.”

Anders exhaled. Out of habit, his mind instantly began to catalogue the things that he wanted to keep, and anything else that he could leave behind. “Red Guard business?”

“Not entirely. Thrask and Emeric have been asking me to return to the Gallows. The meeting is meant to assure me of Meredith's good intentions.” Hawke's expression was carefully neutral. “Bethany won't be going back. If you want to stay, the Order will not learn of this place from me.” The uncomfortable silence stretched for a long moment, as Anders felt his comfortable life slowly turning brittle, then Hawke asked, more quietly, “Will you be leaving Kirkwall?”

“I can't tell you what I'll do next.” The words sounded stiff and distant, even to himself, and he felt a faint touch of disappointment at the back of his mind, and Hawke looked down at his hands.

“I know. I understand.”

“ _Why_ are you going back when Bethany is not?” Anders asked, tightly. When _he himself_ would not?

“For an apostate to walk free in Kirkwall, he or she will either need an ally inside the Gallows, or an ally of considerable political power. The templar patrols are starting to come too close. You should move the clinic if you can, but I'll try and broker a deal with Meredith. Also, I need to convince her that continuing to side with Jevan would only lead to disaster. The qunari are growing restless. The city needs order. A good city guard and a strong Viscount.”

“Don't try and convince me that you're going back because of me. Or Bethany,” Anders retorted. “The families of templars aren't safe from persecution. Look at Thrask.” Thrask's daughter, Olivia, had been caught trying to leave Kirkwall; he'd heard from Varric that Olivia had panicked when she had realized that she had effectively placed herself at the mercy of a pack of slavers upon an ill-fated attempt to leave Kirkwall by her own means, and had resorted to blood magic. “Olivia is Tranquil now. That should tell you what you need to know about Meredith's intentions.”

“Olivia turned to blood magic. Even Thrask accepts that. Neither you nor Bethany have made deals with demons.”

“She was only a child! She had to have been desperate! Frightened! Maker's mercy, she couldn't have been older than sixteen!”

“I don't want to argue with you.” Hawke said flatly.

Anders knew that his own anger was feeding off Hawke's, but he was growing past caring. “Then what did you come here for? One last tumble with your apostate lover before you go back into the Order and to your vows? Get out of my clinic.”

Hawke looked at him, his jaw clenched, and Anders didn't need the link at the back of his mind to know the storm that Hawke was just barely holding in. For a heartbeat, he was ashamed, then Hawke glanced away, out towards the exit to Darktown, and when he spoke his voice was steady. “If we weren't who we were, I would have tried to marry you by now.”

Anders' world seemed to freeze to crystal, the only sound he could hear for a long moment the staccato of his own heart, then he forced a laugh, edging away from the abyss the only way he knew how. “That should be fun to present to the Grand Cleric. An apostate mage and a templar.”

“Templars can get married. Look at Aveline.” Hawke rolled his broad shoulders into a shrug. “And there are other chantries where you won't be recognised. I don't think _what_ we are is the problem.” He reached tentatively for Anders' hand, only for Anders to hastily pull away.

“Either way, it's good that you didn't try.” Saying 'no' to a proposal seemed like an extremely awkward and uncomfortable thing to do for both parties involved.

“I know that.” Hawke got to his feet, with a warrior's disciplined grace. “May the Maker watch over you, Anders.”

He wanted to say _something_ , angry words, perhaps, or a cutting quip, but the words choked in his mouth, and Anders merely nodded tightly. Hawke inclined his head, striding for the exit, then he paused, next to Anders' desk, beside the sheafs of medical notes, hoarded books and unfinished bowls of ground elfroot for potions. Reaching into a pouch at his belt, Hawke palmed something onto the table, and left.

It felt like hours before his legs could finally hold his weight again, when what little light filtered into Darktown began to ease into night. Hawke had left a ring on the desk, a cunningly wrought silver ring that looked like a wave breaking and turning upon itself. Despite the way his throat clenched suddenly, Anders tried it on. A perfect fit. He let the dying light catch it for a moment, then he shook his head and jerked it off his finger.

XIX.

Hawke was Ser Hawke again, and everyone acted like this was perfectly normal, even Bethany. The templars were hauling weight in all directions now, protecting Meredith's interests in Hightown, breaking into the growing schism between Meredith and Thrask, and having to deal with the growing number of blood mage incidents in Kirkwall. Olivia had become something of a martyr with the mage underground, with her sweet, blank, innocent face, and either Thrask was not as understanding as Hawke had said – how could any father be – or there were other templars who were full sympathizers. Mages were escaping despite the lockdown, and the Gallows was a grim place now, all multiple patrols and watches.

Some sort of poisoned gas had leaked all over a quarter of Lowtown before Aveline, leading a tight group of Red Guard, had managed to find and stop all the gas canisters. The Guard had taken heavy losses when they encountered the elf fanatics that had been the ones to set off the gas attack, and scores of people were dead, or in critical condition. Hightown and the Viscount stood silent, as did the city guard, and even coughing and pale as she was, Aveline and the rest of the Red Guard who were even remotely ambulatory spent their waking hours assisting Anders in the clinic, making sure that he ate and rested, helping him mix antidotes and potions, trying to find a cure. Bethany came to the clinic to assist him, and for once Anders was far too busy with his patients to resent the familial resemblance on her features.

An ingredients list had arrived after two days from Orsino – the First Enchanter had somehow managed to smuggle it out of the Gallows on one of Varric's agents. The Circle's extensive library had a healthy section on poisons and antidotes. The patients who had managed to hang on this long began to recover, responding well to the antidote, but Anders had already seen more pointless death over the long, sleepless two days than he had ever wanted to do so, even with his experience at Vigil's Keep, mostly the elderly and infirm, and children. The children were the worst.

Aveline collapsed after the two days, and remained abed in the infirmary, in a stable condition, sleeping off her exhaustion and the effects of the poison. Anders had wanted to sleep as well, but had gone for a long-needed drink in the Hanged Man instead, in Varric's suite.

“Maker, but you're a wreck,” Varric said, pushing another mug of piss-poor beer towards him. “I think you should be crashing out somewhere, Blondie.”

Anders didn't want to say that he saw death whenever he closed his eyes. “After I stop being thirsty.”

“I hear that Meredith was all for storming the alienage,” Varric said, knocking back a mug of his own. “But Hightown objected. Whatever _could_ they do without all their cheap elvhen servant labor.”

“They executed the _hahren_ anyway.” With the Red Guard mostly out of commission or occupied in the clinic, the city guard, led by Jevan, had marched into the alienage and murdered the unarmed Elder before the _vhenadahl_ tree.

“Sorry business, that.” Varric said solemnly. “The world's not much for jokes nowadays. More people are converting to the Qun. With the Red Guard still recovering, and the attitude from up high, some people think the qunari are the only sane bastion of strength left.”

“The horned invaders with the charming attitudes. Lovely.” Hawke should have been born a qunari. He probably would have enjoyed life better.

Anders hadn't realized that he had voiced the last part until he noticed Varric staring at him oddly. “I know this is probably sensitive, but what happened between you and Hawke?”

“Hawke still comes by the Hanged Man to see you now and then.” Maker, he wished that didn't sound as bitter as it did. “Ask him yourself.”

“Duly noted.” Varric raised his palms. “Backing off now from the conversational minefield. Before you ask, though, he isn't here hunting mages, but some books left behind by that blood mage who caught him the last time. Meredith wants them.”

“I wasn't going to ask.” If he could manage it, he wanted to have nothing further to do with Hawke or his family.

Unfortunately, fate had a sense of cruel timing. Varric glanced at the door, peering out over into the Hanged Man. “Isn't that Sunshine?”

Bethany was running, pushing haphazardly past patrons and weaving around waitresses, out-of-breath and pale, followed by Hawke's big mabari, Primarch, and even from here, Anders could see her fear. Varric had Bianca out and loaded in a second, even as Anders gripped his staff, ready to head down to face any templars that might be behind her, even as Bethany stumbled into Varric's suite, sobbing for breath.

“Sunshine, sit down. Calm down, girl. Who's after you? Bianca will take care of them.” Varric said, guiding her to a chair. “Templars?”

“Not... not templars.” Bethany refused to sit down, looking to Anders instead. “I ran all the way here when I came home and found these on the kitchen table.”

Anders' heart dropped to his stomach as Bethany held out a bunch of white lilies.

“Holy _shit_ ,” Varric said slowly, even as he backed up to watch the door. “I'll send someone to get your brother.”

“No. No, don't tell him. He'll drag me back to the Gallows. Mharen was in the Gallows, and she wasn't even safe there. I can't go back there any longer. And I don't know what to do. Please.”

“Shh.” Anders hugged Bethany as her shoulders shook with sobs. “Here's what we'll do. We'll leave you with the Guard in my clinic. Under no circumstances must you leave it. Aveline should be waking up anytime now. She'll keep you safe. You trust Aveline, don't you? And Primarch will be there as well.” Bethany nodded dumbly against his shoulder, even as the big dog snuffled at Anders' shoes and barked. “Where's your mother? We'll leave her at the clinic as well. Then Varric and I will find whoever did this and stop them.”

“Mother... Mother should be with Gamlen at this time of day.”

“Then what's your uncle doing here?” Varric said from the door, and sure enough, Gamlen had just entered the Hanged Man, looking around wildly, then making a bee-line for them once he saw Varric.

“Bethany, where's Leandra? Is she all right? She didn't show up for our usual meeting, your house was empty, and your neighbor said that you ran off in a hurry. I thought you'd be here.” Gamlen narrowed his eyes at Anders. “Who's this? Why are you crying? Did he do something?”

“ _Holy shit_ ,” Varric said again, louder this time, as the pin dropped for all of them.

Bethany was so pale that Anders thought that she would faint. She pulled away from him and pressed the flowers into Gamlen's hands. “Uncle, go to the Gallows now. Please. Try and get hold of Lionel. If not Lionel, then either Thrask or... or Emeric or the First Enchanter. Say that Mother's gone missing and show this to them.”

“What's happened to your mother? What's-”

“Go now, uncle!”

“I... you... all right,” Gamlen said nervously, and hurried away.

“I'll get word to the Red Guard.” Varric said, gesturing at the bar, and one of the patrons trotted towards them. They exchanged words, and the man nodded quickly and started away on a brisk walk. “Let's check your house and work our way to Gamlen's, with the dog. Do you think that this was recent?”

“Varric,” Anders said, warningly, “Bethany's about to collapse.”

“No. I'm fine.” Bethany said, in a small voice. “I saw her last night. No, this morning. Just before I left for the clinic. No flowers. She was... she was all right. Normal.”

“So this was recent.” Varric said. “Then we might still be in time.”

XX.

Somewhat to Anders' surprise, Aveline caught up with them just as the mabari hound was leading them towards the north-eastern end of Lowtown. The Red Guard's captain still looked a little pale, and her movements seemed slower, but she wore a familiar expression of determination. “Varric. I got your message.”

“I don't think you're still well enough to be up and about,” Anders protested.

“If Leandra's in danger, I'm well enough to be up and about,” Aveline retorted, reaching over to squeeze Bethany's shoulder. “We'll find her.” Bethany smiled wanly in return, but a little color returned to her face as she straightened, buttressed by Aveline's strength.

The dog eventually led them to a building that he had investigated before. “The abandoned foundry,” Anders said, as Aveline tried the door. It was unlocked. “I didn't find anything here previously.”

The foundry looked disused and empty, but the mabari led them unerringly up a stairway, then to a mat in the corner, pawing it aside, then sitting down triumphantly beside the trap door, panting and barking excitedly.

“I didn't see that the last time.” Anders groaned. He _should_ have thought to borrow Hawke's mabari. Some Fereldan he was. If Leandra was dead, or worse-

“I'll go down first,” Aveline announced, opening the trapdoor after Varric had scanned it for tripwires.

“You can't come, even if you could fit,” Bethany told the mabari, which whined, “None of us are going to be able to carry you back up again, you big, heavy lug. Go and find Lionel and lead him here.” The dog barked, lapped at her cheek, and bounded away.

Shades and a rage demon rose from the ground to meet them once they walked deeper into the first chamber, and it was a difficult fight, with Aveline not on the top of her game and Bethany's fear for her mother's safety making her spellwork uncoordinated. The underground chambers smelled like a charnel house, blood and something raw, offal and tripe, and that clearly wasn't helping Bethany's mental state. Anders silently cursed himself for taking Bethany with him, even though he knew that if she was any shade of her brother at all, no force he could summon up on Thedas would be able to keep her away. He could only hope that she would be strong enough not to go down the path that Karl had taken, that many mages when driven to despair had taken.

With the last shade dissipating from a well-aimed bolt from Varric, Anders cast a healing touch on Aveline, even as Varric and Bethany circled the chamber. There was a sudden, choked sob, and Bethany ran to a corner of the room, to a still figure of a woman, lying on her side. As Bethany turned the body over, Anders let out the breath he was holding. It was a dead woman, her eyes glassy and open, but she was not Leandra.

Varric was reading a note tacked to the table. “'Used quicklime on her feet.' What?”

“We'll have to hurry,” Aveline said, even as she swayed a little. “Come on.”

They had to wade through another two pockets of shades and minor demons before they reached a large chamber that looked like a shrine of sorts, all papers and books on the floor around a large portrait of a beautiful woman. Aveline's sword hand shook from exhaustion – as Anders had suspected, she certainly should be abed right now and still recovering, and Bethany was leaning heavily against her staff as they took a short breather. Anders himself wasn't sure how much more he could give; the lack of sleep and the marathon nightmare of the past few days was making him feel light-headed, and he hadn't much left in him.

“That portrait,” Bethany said uncomfortably. “It looks like Mother.”

“I don't like this.” Varric was poking through some of the books with the toe of his boot. “They're all books on necromancy. Makes my skin crawl just to look at the pages.”

“We're moving on,” Aveline said curtly. “I'm fine,” she added sharply, as Anders opened his mouth. “I can collapse after I put the blood mage who did this to the sword.”

“You definitely scare me. More than Hawke does.” Varric observed, though he circled around to the exit of the chamber, again checking for trip wires and pressure plates.

In the final chamber, a robed man stood over an operating table, a bloody knife in his hand. He looked up sharply when they strode into the room, and Bethany let out a wild cry of despair that made the hair on Anders' arms and the back of his neck stand on end. On the operating table was Leandra, and Anders knew from a first glance that it was too late for her. Blood magic was all that was holding the life in her twitching body, her neck sundered almost through with a deep gash.

There was _so_ much blood.

“Uninvited guests,” the blood mage snarled, “How dare you interrupt me!” He threw up his hands in an incantation, only to rock back as Varric's bolts turned him into a pincushion. Impossibly, he righted himself, laughing a gurgling laugh, as shades and demons coalesced around them.

They were outnumbered and weary. It didn't take much to do up the math. Silently commending all of their souls to the Maker, Anders drew all the magic he had left to his fingertips-

The door behind the blood mage was kicked down, and Primarch bounded through, with the deep-throated growl that only a mabari could make, landing on the blood mage's back and clamping its jaws deep into his neck. Templars poured in, led by Meredith, with Hawke and Cullen behind her, and they waded into battle with the demons, shouting challenges.

Too exhausted to contribute, Anders followed Bethany instead as she ran for her mother's body, summoning her healing magic to her hands and pouring it into the body. Leandra smiled a faint, lopsided smile, raising one hand slowly and jerkily towards her daughter, then as the mabari shook its prey, snapping the blood mage's neck, the light in her eyes went out.

“No. _No_. Do something!” Bethany rounded on Anders, her eyes bright with tears. “You're the best healer I've ever met! Please!”

“Blood magic was the only thing that was still holding her here, Bethany. I'm sorry,” Anders said, swallowing tears. He hadn't known Leandra well, but Bethany's anguish – and the deep, black sorrow he could feel within him – Hawke's pain – made his eyes sting, his fingers clenching.

Bethany let out another wild scream of despair, and then Lionel was there, hugging her tightly, rocking her and murmuring into her hair, stroking fingers up and down her back until she stopped shaking and fell to wrenching sobs instead. At the table, Anders closed Leandra's eyes, looking around until he saw a white shroud draped on a chair, and covered her body with it, watching the white cloth instantly spot a deep crimson. Failure. They had failed.

The demons were disposed of quickly, and Hawke didn't even look up when Cullen approached him, clapping him solemnly on the shoulder. Meredith was directing templars to search the other rooms, and in a corner, Aveline was leaning heavily against a wall, nearly on the verge of unconsciousness, tears streaking her cheeks, though her mouth was set in a thin line. Varric was seated on a chair, looking down at his boots, grim.

Finally, Meredith sheathed her greatsword, sweeping them with a calculating stare, then she looked to Cullen. “Arrest both the apostates.”

“Wait, what?” Varric was on his feet, Bianca in his hands. “You can't be _serious_. Sunshine just lost her mother!”

“Stay out of this, dwarf,” Meredith said coldly. “And you, serah Vallen,” she added, as Aveline pushed away from the wall. “You're barely standing on your feet. Face us now and you'll both regret it.”

“Knight-Commander,” Cullen said hesitantly, “If I may interject-”

“Do as I say, Knight-Captain,” Meredith snapped. “Blood magic was wrought here. Bodies have been desecrated. There are still two apostates in the location. Ergo, we arrest them.”

“You _can't_ be _suggesting_ that we were part of this!” Anders burst out. “That was their _mother_!”

“We'll get to the bottom of this, apostate. Not you. Take them away, Knight-Captain.”

Cullen looked dubiously at Hawke, but neither of the Hawke siblings seemed to have heard anything, lost in their own world of grief. In the sudden silence, the sound of Bianca being loaded was very loud.

“Varric, don't.” Anders said wearily. “We've seen enough death today – Maker, we've seen enough death this entire week. I'll go nicely.”

Varric's eyes were narrowed – the dwarf was _angry_. “All right. But don't think I'll just let this lie, Blondie.”

“Nor I.” Aveline growled, a palm pressed against the wall for support.

XXI.

Bethany had cried when Cullen gently pried her from her brother, back in the Gallows, and a dangerous gleam had crept into Lionel's eyes, until the Knight-Captain muttered something into his ear. Nodding tightly, Lionel watched grimly as the templars marched them both away into the cells reserved for solitary confinement, his hands curling and uncurling into fists.

Huddled together in a stone cell, holding Bethany against him until she finally wept herself dry and then fell into an exhausted sleep, Anders rested his skull against the wall behind him and allowed himself to close his eyes, exhausted.

He woke up when someone knocked lightly against the barred door. “Anders? Bethany?”

Bethany moaned and clutched at him as Anders shifted his weight. “Emeric?”

“Anders. What about Bethany?”

“She's...” Bethany wasn't fine – she was heartbroken. “She's here.”

“All right.” The door clicked open, and Emeric stood to a side, holding the keys. Orsino peered into the cell, along with a group of three Senior Enchanters behind him.

“Thank the Maker. I thought that Meredith would have tried to do something while everyone was arguing.” Orsino's shoulders slumped in relief. “Come on. We're getting the both of you out of here.”

“What?” Anders carefully pulled Bethany to her feet, and she stood against him, still and doll-like. “Where are we going?”

“Your friend Varric is anchored offshore with a 'consultant'.” Orsino murmured. “Hurry. We need to get the both of you out. Meredith intends to make the both of you Tranquil, found guilty of being apostates and blood mages. She won't hear reason. We heard the full testimony from the Knight-Captain about what happened, everyone did. Meredith's snapped.”

“But Lionel-”

“He's been contained. Meredith tricked him into one of the rooms and barred it.” Emeric said grimly. “Before she passed sentence on the both of you.”

At the mention of her brother, Bethany rubbed at her eyes. “I won't leave without him.”

“Knight-Captain Cullen and Thrask are working out a way to free him. He's more heavily guarded than you.” Orsino's face was strained. “Come on. The Senior Enchanters and I can't hold this invisibility spell for too long. Meredith's crazy, but she won't execute Ser Hawke. She doesn't have any good reason to. If you want to help him, you'll need to get back to Kirkwall and gather up the Red Guard. Things are at a boiling point and the both of you are the focus. I can't risk a war breaking out over you in the Gallows. We have _children_ here.”

“I...” Bethany looked down at her feet. “I can't leave Lionel.”

“Bethany. We'll come back. I promise you. The First Enchanter's right. We can't risk a war breaking out within the Circle unless the children have been moved,” Anders said quietly, and found that he meant it. Crazy seemed to be the flavor of the day today. “Though I should add that 'good reasons' aren't defined the same way by crazy people,” Anders pointed out, as they followed Emeric out of the cell, over the bodies of the unconscious guards. “How did you get the keys?”

“Emeric's a fixture in the Gallows. He knows where everything's kept. Including the spare keys to the cells,” Orsino said, as they hurried up the steep stairs. “Don't talk until we're outside.” They headed past patrols of templars who didn't spare them a second glance.

Dodging the patrols on the courtyard, they hurried over to the shore, where they could see Varric and Isabela's figures in a small boat within swimming distance. Just as Anders waded into the water, however, an arrow whistled overhead, then another, bursting into flames as they arced over the waves, aiming for the boat. Instantly, Varric and Isabela dove overboard, and Anders hastily clapped a hand over Bethany's mouth as she looked as though she would cry out. Soon the small boat was set alight, a beacon of flame on the dark water.

“Oh, Maker no,” Orsino whispered, turning around. Meredith was striding out towards them, flanked by templars. “I... I'll hold them off. The both of you start swimming.”

“They can't swim ashore in this darkness, and the archers might catch them.” Emeric murmured, though he had drawn his blade, a little heavily. “Hold the spell. We'll circle around the Gallows, along the wall. There are other entrances where we can hide until daybreak.”

“They'll be searching here for sure. You'll still need time.” Orsino set his jaw. “I'll provide a distraction. If the both of you lend your strength to Liaren,” he patted one of the female Senior Enchanters by the shoulder, “There should still be enough to get you to the other entrance.”

“First Enchanter,” Liaren protested.

“Don't worry, Liaren. I know how to handle Meredith. We quarrel at least once a day, remember?” Orsino smiled. “You're in charge now, Ser Emeric. Make sure they're safe.”

Emeric shook Orsino's hand tightly, then the First Enchanter strode away, a lone, slim form facing Meredith and the others, dropping the illusion around himself once he was within range. Even as they were hustled into the wave-lapped rocks around the wall by Emeric, Anders couldn't help but watch.

Orsino exchanged angry words with Meredith, gesturing at her, pointing at the Gallows behind her. She shook her head at him, snapped something, then, with blinding speed, drew her sword and ran him through. Orsino reached forward, as though astonished, then he slumped down as Meredith kicked his body off her blade.

“Liaren!” Emeric hissed, but Liaren had let out a cry of grief, breaking the illusion and running forward, as did the other Senior Enchanters beside them. As they watched, Meredith raised her hand, and arrows stitched into the Enchanters from where they were.

“Against the wall. Now.” Emeric growled, flattening against the wall and glancing up.

“She's definitely lost it now,” Anders muttered, glancing up at the battlements. They were never going to be able to get at the archers from this angle.

Then Bethany plucked at his sleeve. Someone had thrown a grappling hook up the battlements, and climbing up it were two familiar shapes, one lithe and feminine, one short and stout. “Come on,” she whispered, wading into the waters.

“That won't hold the weight of my armor,” Emeric said, a little ruefully. “Perhaps this old campaigner will have one last battle after all. Go.”

“Thank you,” Anders said, a little awkwardly, even as he followed Bethany out into the water.

Climbing up the rope in the dark, their hands slippery with water, sharp rocks beneath them, was certainly one of the more insane things that Anders had ever done. He wasn't sure how Bethany managed it, even as Varric hauled her up, then he. The rogues had taken care of the archers, all hidden knives and crossbow bolts, and Anders gathered magic into his fingertips as Varric loaded Bianca again. If he was about to die, this was a good place to do battle, against the templars, out of range of their abilities. From the way Bethany straightened up beside him, he could tell that she was thinking the same thing.

“I'm sorry, brother,” she murmured to herself, as fire began to dance over her palm.

“Look.” Isabela suddenly pointed. “What's big, blue and glows in the dark?”

Dreading what he was about to see, Anders peered over the battlements. Striding down the wide stairway from the Gallows was Hawke, his greatsword and templar armor touched with blue flame. Behind him were other templars – Anders could make out Cullen and Thrask, and some 'mage-sympathizers', as well as the other Senior Enchanters and Enchanters, even as Meredith turned to face them.

“Hawke.” Her voice carried on the winds. “A templar turning to what is forbidden? You are a disgrace.”

“I borrowed a little strength from a friend,” Thank the Maker, but Hawke's voice was his own – not Justice's. “Speak for yourself, Knight-Commander. Those books that we found for you, Tarohne's tomes. You read them, didn't you? Did Xebenkeck need to whisper very long in your ear?”

“You speak of things that you do not understand,” Meredith snarled. “The books gave me _understanding_ , of the adversaries that we face. I sought no power from them!”

“You've murdered the First Enchanter, Knight-Commander,” Cullen said sharply, from beside Hawke. “You've conspired to turn the mages Bethany and Anders Tranquil, and all they did was stop a serial killer. We found correspondence between yourself and Jevan, scheming to destroy the Red Guard. Furthermore, you have been harboring and reading forbidden knowledge. You have overstepped yourself as a Knight-Commander and as a templar. As Knight-Captain, I hereby relieve you of your command. Return to your office.”

“Traitors. Even my own Knight-Captain.” Meredith growled, raising her greatsword, the blade turning a pale sheen, like crystal. “I've mastered the creatures from beyond the Veil. I've become a far greater Knight-Commander than any other in history! You _will_ yield to me!”

“You've lost your mind to power, Meredith,” Hawke stepped forward. “There's still time to turn back.”

“We shall see. Attack the traitors!” Meredith ordered her men. Some hesitated, backing away, until only Karras and his group of thugs were left. Seeing the now greater number of templars behind Hawke and Cullen, they too, wavered, and fled.

“Traitors all!” Meredith roared. “I do not need them.” She raised her fist, and revenants rose from the ground, gaunt warriors limmed with ice and fire, ranks upon ranks beside and behind her. Isabela muttered a filthy word, and Varric let out a low whistle.

“Sweet Andraste,” Anders murmured, as the revenants advanced on the templars and mages.

“I'm charging extra for this,” Isabela told Varric primly, tossing throwing daggers from hand to hand.

The templars formed up, keeping the mages at relative safety on the steps, splitting into two ranks to engage the revenants. From the battlements, Varric rained insults and bolts on the advancing revenants, while Anders and Bethany cast all the spells that they could muster, raining lightning and ice from the battlements. In the centre of it all, Hawke fought Meredith, the both of them oblivious to the war around them, blades ringing as they clashed, both wielding their greatswords with far more ease and speed than was humanly possible, feinting and parrying in a deadly dance of steel.

Templars began to fall as the revenants ignored grievous wounds, pressing silently forward, only falling still when decapitated or hacked to pieces. Cullen and Thrask seemed to be holding their own, but the templar ranks were getting pushed slowly back towards the stairs. Bethany had tired, leaning heavily against the battlements, and Anders couldn't even will up a simple healing spell now if he tried.

Then there was a challenging cry from the shoreline, and Anders turned around. In the heat of battle he hadn't seen the ship approaching, anchored offshore. Ranks of the Red Guard were coming ashore, led by Aveline, and they smashed into the rear ranks of the revenants like a battering ram.

“That woman really scares the shit out of me.” Varric said, watching in awe as the revenant ranks actually broke under the Red Guard's assault.

“I think that's the third time that I've heard you say that,” Bethany grinned, waving at Aveline. “Aveline! We're okay!”

There was an answering shout from the templars and mages as they rallied at the sight of allies, holding the line against the summoned creatures. Then, as Anders watched, already bleeding from various gashes rent in his armor, Hawke slammed his greatsword down, catching Meredith's between the flagstones. The blue light flared so brightly that Anders had to look away, and there was an unearthly cry, then a shockwave swept out, flattening revenants, templars and the Guard alike. Hastily, Varric grabbed them both by their belts and dragged them down as the wave of force roared out overhead, shaking the battlements beneath them.

When he looked up, Meredith's blade was fragmented on the cracked stone, and the Knight-Commander lay beside the centre of the crater, coughing blood, snarling something that Anders couldn't catch. Hawke strode forward, holding the hilt of his greatsword in both hands, and rammed it through her breastplate, twisting it. As one, the remaining revenants vanished.

Slowly, the ranks of Red Guard and templars were picking themselves up, looking around in silent disbelief. Knight-Captain Cullen approached Hawke as the blue flames disappeared, then, to Anders' shock, he knelt down, followed by the rest of the templars.

“Well.” Varric murmured, peering down. “You don't see that happen everyday.”

epilogue.

Anders was organising the healing and potions for the injured, making sure everyone was cared for. The mages had mostly gotten off unscathed, with only one revenant having broken through the templar ranks, and most of the injuries were from the newer templar recruits. Tying off a splint on one of the recruit's legs, Anders looked up when someone cleared his throat.

“Let me take care of that,” Thrask said mildly. “Lionel wants to see you.”

Anders decided that he hated how that made his heart skip a little faster. “All right.” Turning to Bethany, who was cleaning a Red Guard's gashed wound, he said, “Bethany, take over please.”

She nodded wearily at him. Work and healing had been best for her grief – there was color in her cheeks again, and she even managed a slight smile. The battle had gone better than Anders had originally thought – there weren't many deaths; templars made good armor. Even Emeric had somehow survived to fight another day, the old man resting in a corner of the infirmary and complaining every so often about the enforced rest.

Knight-Captain Cullen and Aveline were in the midst of leaving Hawke's office when he approached. Cullen nodded at him in acknowledgement, and Aveline smiled, patting his arm.

Within, Hawke was still in his old templar armor, reading a report, and he stood up from the Knight-Commander's desk when Anders entered the office. “Knight-Commander through trial by fire?”

“I haven't agreed to assume the role.” Hawke said. He looked bone-weary, even though the wounds he had sustained had all been healed.

“Let me guess. You have a spirit possession problem?”

“No. There was no spirit possession; it was more like the arrangement that Senior Enchanter Wynne had, in Ferelden. Knight-Captain Cullen explained it to me. Either way, it won't happen again. Your friend says that his work is done.”

“Ah,” Anders said, a little puzzled. Justice had thought that the mage cause had been served by establishing Hawke as a Knight-Commander? Strange. But then, Justice didn't always have the same form of reasoning as a person. “About what happened to Leandra...”

Hawke's expression shut down instantly. “Yes?”

“Well,” Anders said, somewhat awkwardly, “If you wanted to talk... or... Hawke, I'm sorry. How are you bearing up?”

“I'll be fine.” Hawke said flatly, even as the black despair flared up, if briefly. “Please do not bring this up again.”

Anders sighed. He knew better than to push. For now. “I guess your new job will help. So have you been confirmed, or are there still formalities? Strange and boring templar rituals? Speeches?”

“I've told the Knight-Captain and the others that I'm not assuming the role-”

“Why not?” Anders cut in, surprised. “You'll make a far better Knight-Commander than that crazy woman.”

“My _mabari_ would make a better Knight-Commander than her,” Hawke said dryly.

Anders laughed. “Don't give them ideas. They'll have to specially commission his armor and hire a mabari translator. Anyway, the templars and the mages respect you. You're everyone's choice. At least, now that Karras and the other rats have been kicked out of the Gallows by the Knight-Captain.”

“Let me finish. I'm not assuming the role unless you're named First Enchanter beside me.”

Anders stared at him dumbly, for a long moment, until Hawke sat back down at his desk, picking up the dispatch again as though he'd simply just told Anders the time of day. Finally, Anders managed a slightly high pitched, “What?”

“Circles that operate well require a First Enchanter who isn't afraid of the Knight-Commander. Someone principled, willing to disagree with the Knight-Commander, whom the mages respect and will listen to, who will constantly strive to protect the other mages in the Circle rather than simply antagonising the templars. Also,” Hawke added mildly, “The First Enchanter is the only free mage in any Circle. Free to travel outside of the Circle. In a proper Circle, he decides policies involving the mages, including the right of travel, not the Knight-Commander.”

“What about Bethany?”

“What do you think?”

Bethany would always give in to her brother's will in the end, Anders thought. “True. This is still, however, a remarkably bad idea. I don't have any experience or interest in a role like this.”

“Good. Neither do I have any experience nor interest in being the Knight-Commander. They aren't looking for people who are interested in power for power's sake.” Hawke turned a page in the dispatch. “It won't be easy. Even without internal problems, there's still Jevan, the nobles and the qunari to deal with.”

“You know that I don't approve of the whole system.”

“Not as it is now. I'm asking you to help me show the rest of Thedas that there is a better way.” Hawke glanced up then, holding his eyes evenly. “The Circle shouldn't be a prison. But mages can't be utterly uncontrolled, free to unleash their magic. You've seen what happened with Tarohne, with my mother. Help me find a balance.”

Anders wavered a fraction. “The Chantry might not like that.”

“I'll cross that river when it comes.”

“The First Enchanter isn't chosen by the templars.”

Hawke nodded. “I've made my choice amply clear to the Senior Enchanters already. They've advised me that they will agree – provided that you are willing. I gather that you and Bethany made a strong impression overall, during the battle and how you took control of the aftermath with the mages.”

“This isn't because of our previous arrangement, is it?” Anders asked, suspiciously. “Or some strange, circular way of making things up to me?”

Hawke was genuinely puzzled. “What do our personal lives have to do with this?”

Trust Hawke not to see the obvious. “Just what people will think once they realize we were involved on a... personal level.”

“I don't care what the others think,” Hawke said, irritated. “Even if you never let me touch you again, my opinion still stands.”

“In your 'better way', if the Knight-Commander doesn't listen to the First Enchanter-”

“I'm willing to make the effort. With you.”

Anders tried to think it over, still reeling. It _was_ a fair shot at acquiring better rights for mages, at least for Kirkwall. A fair shot at showing the rest of the world by example that their ways were wrong, that a better way didn't lead to chaos, Tevinter slavery and blood magic. And if anything went wrong – like Hawke said, the First Enchanter was effectively the freest mage in any Circle. He could always disappear while on 'official' business. He'll be gambling on a chance – that Hawke would keep his word, that they could consolidate their position in the political mire that was Kirkwall proper, that the Chantry wouldn't decide to obliterate them – but the odds looked good for the stakes involved.

“If you give me your word to genuinely try and work out Circle matters with me where they involve both mages and templars, and to give me full jurisdiction on internal mage business, I'll agree.”

“You have my word,” Hawke said unhesitatingly, as though he'd known what Anders was going to say. “I look forward to working with you.”

“You'll be looking forward to a lot of shouting matches,” Anders corrected, though he had to grin when he said it.

“Constructive shouting matches, I hope.” There was a faint curl to Hawke's mouth, for just a moment, nearly a smile, and at that, Anders took a deep breath and closed the door.

“In my clinic, you, uh, left a-”

Hawke's expression froze, then turned neutral, even as Anders felt, for a moment before Hawke's guard went up, an uncertain note of _want_ , of longing, intense enough for his throat to clench up. “It's for you. It doesn't have to mean anything if you don't want it to.”

“Somehow,” Anders said wryly, slowly letting go of his instinctive distrust, of old hatreds and old preconceptions, “A templar manages to be the best thing that ever happened to me.” He reached into his pockets until his hands closed on the hard, silver circle, then he walked up to the desk and held it out. “Here. Take it back. We're going to be very busy in the months ahead. Someday,” he added, in a softer voice, “When I'm ready, I'll ask you to return it.”

Hawke made no move to take the ring. “Keep it. Someday, when you're ready, wear it for me.”

Anders nodded slowly, unable to think of a reply as he slipped the ring back into his pocket. When he looked up, Hawke had circled around the table to him, unlatching his gauntlets to toss them onto his desk. Anders shivered as roughened fingers stroked over his cheek, cupping it as Hawke bent close, his mouth trailing in an intimate line from Anders' neck to the back of his ear before breathing in, deeply. Licking his lips, his mouth suddenly dry, Anders whispered, “Lionel.”

Hawke wreathed the fingers of his free hand with Anders' right hand, squeezing tight as he pressed the curve of his mouth against Anders' jaw. “The others are waiting for us. Shall we?”

**Author's Note:**

> The Red Queen hypothesis is a theory of constant evolution. Usually involving sex, oh well.
> 
> Perhaps it is obvious to usual readers, this is my third playthrough's Hawke, being the warrior!templar!angry!Hawke version. I'm actually romancing Isabela on it, and Hawke in that game is picking all the evil choices, full rivalry with all characters but Bethany, but I tweaked it to fit the prompt. It is possible in the game to play an aggressive character who still picks moral choices, so that's the version that I've run with for the purposes of fic. Also, I don't like reading sad endings, so even my dark!fic seem to end up happy. And vaguely fluffy.
> 
> Thanks everyone for reading. And thanks to the OP for a great prompt.  
> \--  
> EDIT: Add on short story: Statements of Claim: Post story events: http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/4251.html?thread=9766299


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